Faithless Page 7

  "Well if you haven't figured that out by now, you're slower than I took you for." He grabbed her arm. "Come on. We've a bus to catch."

  "Ok, goodbye Mrs Gilroy." Karen waved as she went out.

  His mother had gone back to cutting carrots. She looked round and smiled at them. "You enjoy yourselves."

  Outside as they walked to the bus stop, Karen said, "Is your ma all right?"

  "Just a bit upset about something."

  "Oh."

  "I'll tell you later."

  "Oh. Ok. I don't mean to intrude."

  "You could never intrude in my life, ma wee sleekit, cowerin' timorous beastie."

  She punched his arm. "I may be sleekit, but I'm no cowerin' nor timorous."

  "That's true in fact."

  "You know the movie, John?"

  "Aye. I think."

  "Well, it's a bit intellectual."

  "Oh really?"

  "Aye, a wee bit artsy."

  "I may struggle."

  "I know. I was worried about that. But I'll help you out."

  He laughed. "What would I do without you?"

  "You wouldn't manage. But don't worry. I won't leave you to cope on your own."

  April 30th 1985 - Berkley Square, London: John got out of the black London taxi closely followed by Philip who paid the driver, giving him a £10 tip.

  "Thanks Guv," said the bald driver, his fat rolling under his chin as he turned his head to grin and quickly stuff the money into his shirt pocket. He had given them the benefit of his views on immigration between Gower Street, where they had changed, and Berkley Square where they had alighted on the west side outside Annabel's. He didn't think it was a good thing. He had, with a conciliatory tone, accepted that the inward flow of Old Commonwealth citizens from Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa might be beneficial to the economy, and even Americans - as long as they were white.

  "Hateful wasn't he?" said Philip, pulling up the collar of his dark coat against the wind.

  "Why did you give him such a big tip then?"

  "Psychological for my self. I am getting into character as a high roller. Here." He reached into the inner pocket of his suit and pulled out a big wad of cash.

  "Fuck me," said John. "How much is there?"

  "About £1000. Don't spend it all as we want it back later. It's just a prop. Make sure you flash it as you buy him a drink. Anyway, this is Annabel's. Feel free to use more sex words. I want you to appear coarse."

  "Shouldn't be too hard." John put the money into his trouser pocket in a suitably rough manner. He gestured at the discreet frontage of Annabel's. "Are all posh places as anonymous as this? The Traveller's Club was."

  "Yes. We believe less is more. We don't like to make a fuss - we posh folk."

  "What time's he due?"

  "I told you that. Ten minutes."

  "I must be nervous. Let's go in."

  The door was open and a smiling doorman offered to take their coats. Philip signed for John. "Remember I'm Andrew St-John Bird. St John is pronounced Sinjen." They walked down the perilously steep stairs into the club.

  "I'm not totally ignorant."

  "So what's your cover?"

  John groaned. "Do you think I'm green at this?"

  "Yes. As grass."

  John said, "I am Jimmy McGee. I wheel and then I deal. I have made my money in an unspecified but apparently underhand way. Up in Glasgow. Probably involved murder once or twice."

  "Probably," said Philip, smiling. "I can see you getting into the part."

  John put on his broadest imitation of a Glaswegian accent. "See me? Ah'm a nasty Weejie thug. Don't mess." Then he lost the accent and dropped into the refined Edinburgh accent he had learned at the Heriot School. "Couldn't you have got me a gorgeous yet vapid tart to hang off my arm?"

  "One of the K4 secretaries you mean?"

  "Well the Sup-sec is quite tasty."

  "Thought you were married?"

  "John is. Happily. But Jimmy's a fucking shag animal. All that testosterone and money."

  "Jesus. I have created a monster."

  John laughed. The inside of the club looked like an Edwardian drinking den - all dark wood and portraits of dead rich people. John didn't recognise them. It was gloomy. They made their way over to a table and Philip straightened his black bow tie. "I would have liked to come white tie, but sadly I think that's a thing of the past." He looked around. "My god there are people in here in lounge suits. Did you see?"

  John nodded. "What's the world coming to? Mine's a clip on."

  "I noticed. Just right for Jimmy. I think you should take it off and let it hang at some point. Suitably vulgar."

  The waiter came and Philip ordered a gin and tonic. John, being Jimmy, ordered a beer.

  "I'm sorry, sir," said the waiter. "We don't sell beer."

  "Have you got a lager then?"

  Philip sighed. "He thinks he's being funny. Get him a malt whisky - a Lagavulin please."

  When the waiter departed with a gentle smile, John said, "That means the Mill Hollow by the way."

  "I forgot you were a linguist. How many do you speak?"

  "7-8 quite well. A lot more badly. Even more I can only say a few words like 'toast' or 'balloon' in. Mainly because they are just like the English words."

  Philip shook his head. "I think you've become slightly manic. Tone it down for our guest. Seriously."

  John made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I'm in control. Dinnae fash."

  The waiter returned with the drinks like a buffed shadow with just a clink of crystal as he put them down.

  "Also," said Philip. "We are expecting a friend. I'll sign him in when he arrives. He's a Russian gentleman."

  "Certainly Mr St. John-Bird. I'll make the door aware."

  Leonov arrived within five minutes. The doorman brought him over. Phillip got up and shook his hand. John didn't. He just nodded at Leonov in a not wholly welcoming way. Philip introduced him, "Mr McGee this is Mr Leonov."

  John slowly extended his hand but didn't get up. He squeezed Leonov's fingers in a suitably firm grip and enjoyed the wince it produced. Leonov was slim with straight blonde hair and blue eyes. He looked a little like David Bowie. He was wearing a grey lounge suit in contrast to the evening dress of the other two. Philip gestured for Leonov to sit down. "Let me get you a drink."

  John said, "Get a Lagavulin. It's Scottish and smooth. Like me," and he guffawed at the joke like a stupid man impressed at what he takes to be his wit.

  Leonov smiled tentatively. He looked nervous and keen to impress.

  "I hope we haven't put you out," said Philip. "I imagine you have many functions and meetings to go to in the evening."

  "No," said Leonov, "I told the Embassy staff I was going to a Chatham House lecture." He laughed. John tried hard not to catch Philip's eye; deceit so early in the relationship - Leonov already felt he shouldn't be telling people about this.

  Philip laughed politely, a pleasant little tinkling sound. Leonov laughed back.

  "I do hope tonight is more enjoyable than that," said Philip.

  "I believe it is about American policy in Africa." He laughed again. His English was very good. The Slavonic edge to his accent pleasant to John's ears. John made a mental note not to understand any Russian and not to know too much about Russian culture. But it's hard to unknow things, and he knew he had to be alert.

  The waiter came back with the menus. "The foie gras is very good here," said Philip.

  "I don't even know what that is," said John. He saw Philip raise his eyebrows and the slightest conspiratorial glance pass between him and Leonov. The ghost of a smile continued to haunt Leonov's lips as he looked at the menu.

  "And of course the caviar," said Philip.

  "I am an expert on caviar," said Leonov. "I have been eating it since a child. It is Beluga I see. I will have that."

  "So will I," said Philip.

  "I'll have the soup," said John. "What like is it?"

&nb
sp; "I'm sure it will be excellent, Mr McGee," said Philip.

  He leaned over to Leonov. "And the bitter ice-cream is very famous. But for your main course?"

  Leonov hesitated.

  Philip said, "The turbot should be nice. Vanilla and lemon sauce." Leonov still hesitated.

  "Hey, don't worry about the cost. I'm paying. I hear you're worth it," said John.

  Leonov looked up with a sly smile. "Yes, I assure you Mr McGee, I am worth it."

  They ordered and when the waiter came to tell them their table was ready, moved into the confiding low light of the dining room. Philip had made sure Leonov had another double whisky.

  Over dinner, Philip began to talk to Leonov about his imaginary villa on the French Riviera. John watched him. He could almost see Leonov salivating about the riches of this new world he believed was opening to him. Something that was long overdue - a world that he deserved because of his innate specialness. Philip had begun telling a story, perhaps even true, about meeting Michelle Pfeiffer in some casino down there and Leonov's eyes were aglow basking in the reflected starlight of the golden world Philip was inviting him to.

  Then John cut across, "Aye that's all very good, but I want to talk about coal. Ugly, black, dirty coal. The sort that makes rich men richer and consigns poor men to short lives in dark dangerous places."

  Leonov smiled, "Let us hope we are with the rich men."

  "Let us hope indeed, Mr Leonov," said John. " I know I am. Would you like to join me?"

  Leonov coughed. "Very much. These are my natural circles. I am like the Crimean Eagle - noble, high above, watching."

  "All I need from you is information and words in the right ears. You tell me the right ears. You ease my way in. You get me?"

  "I do, Mr McGee. You want to know who to speak to in VUGI? I know."

  "I have contacts in the Conservative Government. They need cheap foreign coal to defeat the British miners."

  Leonov looked very earnest. "I can do this. I have very good contacts."

  The ice cream arrived. There was a pause in the conversation while they ate then Leonov said tentatively. "We have not discussed my fee."

  Philip looked at John. John said, "No, but I am a very generous man." He reached into his trouser pocket. "Here's a little something to show you my seriousness about our joint project." He placed the £1000 on the table in front of Leonov. He noticed the waiter give a look of distaste at the vulgarity of it. But Leonov looked at the money like it was cheese in a mousetrap. He was wary but fascinated. He shrugged. "No, I could not."

  "Take it. There's more where that came from," said John.

  "It will all be above board Mr Leonov. We will issue receipts for your fees," said Philip.

  Leonov still wavered. John felt a tension between his shoulder blades and he knew Philip was feeling it too. The money lay on the pristine tablecloth. Leonov looked towards the exit then at Philip. He smiled. He was sweating. Then he bit his bottom lip, and his hand darted out with a fluid movement to take the money and thrust it into his pocket.

  "Very well," he laughed nervously. "It is an advance. That is fair."

  John said, "I'm sure you won't fail me Mr Leonov. You have an honest face."

  October 1970, Durham: John went up to study Russian at Durham University. He was at University College Durham, known as "Castle". Castle was a short distance away from Durham Cathedral on high ground known as The Bailey, or Peninsula, which stands in a sharp bend of the River Wear. Being from Edinburgh the castle and cathedral rising in medieval splendour on the high hill was nothing fresh; neither was it novel for him to mix with the overwhelmingly Public School educated students that were his contemporaries at Castle. They drank port, threw food at each other, engaged in japes and joined the Boat Club and were the same kind of well bred animals he'd known at the Heriot School. He was used to moving among them. John's family had no money so he got a grant. His mother sent him money to top it up and he economised to eke out what little he had to the end of each month. His only real friend was William Frankton the sandy haired son of a steelworker from Workington in Cumberland and incredibly gifted at mathematics.

  On the first day of Freshers' Week he had to go to the Cathedral to hear an exhortation by the Dean, welcoming the new men and promising these would be the happiest years of their lives. Many of the people there knew each other already from school and family connections. Their names were things like Aldous Chitterington-Heath, Jacob Pole-Simons, Titus LeFevre. They had been to schools like Wellington, Charterhouse and St Paul's. They were exotic coloured birds kept in the medieval Bailey - worlds apart from the grey life of the villages and towns of the Durham coalfield.

  John's first two years at Durham were spent head down studying to receive excellent grades or sitting with Frankton in one or other of their bedrooms high up in Castle listening to Led Zeppelin records and experimenting with cannabis. He escaped as often as he could to see Karen who was studying to be a teacher at Newcastle Polytechnic. Their two worlds could not be more different - the Brideshead Revisited feel of Durham with its sons of bankers and minor aristocrats contrasted with the vibrant working class Saturday nights at the Bigg Market.

  John had his first "formal" - a dressed up dinner in the college dining room early in the Michaelmas term. At that time he knew Frankton only vaguely. He was sitting next to Frankton and some second years. Frankton had the temerity to ask one of the confident, floppy haired boys sitting next to him to "please pass the butter."

  "Passs the buutter??" the boy repeated it in a mock Northern English accent to the delight of his friends. "I can most certainly pass the butter," he repeated with his long and light upper class vowels, extending the plate with its yellow curls of butter to Frankton who had blushed red.

  "Goodness me," said one of the second years, pushing it further, "the oiks are getting everywhere. Shouldn't you be in the kitchen?"

  John, with his Scottish accent, refined by years at the Heriot School, could have stood outside this conflict but instead he chose to intervene. He grabbed the arm of the student who had mocked Frankton. He did it quietly but so hard the man winced. John said, "Who do you think you fucking are? If you ever embarrass my friend again, I will take you outside and break your fucking neck."

  The man kept quiet, his eyes terrified, watching the outlandish Scottish beast.

  John nodded at him demanding a response. "Ye ken?"

  "I'm sorry I don't understand," said the man, visibly shaken.

  "Ye understand gey weel. Noo git the fuck oot o ma sight."

  Like a sheepish dog, with his tail between his legs the student got up and went and found a place at another table. The others muttered among themselves, but not loud enough to provoke a response.

  "Thanks John. I should have done that myself," said Frankton

  "Nae bother, Billy."

  "I didn't know you were so hard."

  " I stand on the shoulders of the heroic Scottish regiments and the Tartan Army's biennial invasions of Trafalgar Square. These upper class twits believe the propaganda, which works to my advantage."

  "I'm not coming again to one of these formals," said Frankton.

  "No, we shall convene at the Chinese Restaurant on Silver Street and have our own formal dinner. Gowns not a requirement. Pints of snakebite will be."

  "And chow mein," said Frankton.

  "Sure thing Billy. Chow mein too."

  The Junior Common Room ran Castle and John soon got a reputation as not being a team player, at least as far as the Senior Man and his friends were concerned. Every year Castle held the June Ball centred on Castle Great Hall. John had hoped to take Karen but the twin facts that the committee running it barely concealed their dislike of him and that the tickets were very expensive meant he did not. Instead, he and Frankton got jobs as waiters to the other students. That night, he was frantically busy running round, serving food, collecting plates and having orders barked at him by the head waiter. One thing he never forgot was the pip
er on the battlements piping in the dawn to the sound of applause. He was clearing up, trying to keep awake and longing for his bed. It had been a warm night and the young men and their young ladies had taken off their dinner jackets. He watched them as they kissed each other and shook hands and put their arms round shoulders in drunken displays of affection and loyalty. He realised that these people took to power like a bird takes to the air or a river opens to the sea. They were born to responsibility; they expected and would receive the gifts of their society - taking places as judges and generals, cabinet ministers and senior civil servants; much as their fathers and their grandfathers had. They would have the big houses and shiny cars, the friendly Labrador dogs and beautifully refined wives from good families in Surrey or the County Set of Northumberland. Their children would wear pretty little blazers and hats and go to prep schools and would be called Jocasta or Julian, Fabian and Philomena. And these children in turn would take their places, and nobody from outside would get in. Or hardly anyone. His mother had hoped he might be one of those lucky few to break into the golden circle and lift their family to walk down silver corridors of power and privilege. But as he watched the bright, tipsy students, he thought of his father and his grandfather toiling in the dark. He wondered which side his father would have wanted him to choose.

  May 1972, London: John's tutor at Durham had explained that most students didn't spend the year abroad in Russia, unlike students doing French or Spanish. But there was an opportunity under a British Council exchange to go to Moscow State University for a year. It had only just been opened up to Arts and Humanities students but he thought that John's particular talent and enthusiasm for Russian meant he should explore it.

  John had to go to an interview at the British Council's Headquarters at 65 Davies Street in London. John had never been to London but he managed to follow directions well enough to get the Tube from King's Cross to Bond Street and walk the rest of the way through the busy streets and past the opulent shops. He was early so he had a cup of tea and a thing he later learned to recognise as a croissant at a café nearby. He bought a copy of the Guardian to read and sat at the table and read the arts reviews until it was time to go to the interview.