He saw the lit screen, saw the number that called him, put it back unanswered in his pocket.
They brought the body, labouring under its weight, and tipped it into the pit. An animal would have been buried with greater dignity. They heaved sections of concrete on top, then refilled the pit with earth, relaid the turf and smacked it down with the spade, then carried away the rotting plywood on which the excess earth lay and scattered it among the growing pea plants.
'Done nicely, Donald.'
'Done a treat, Xavier.'
'I think we'll make good time.'
'No problem. Clear roads, and we'll have a decent run.'
The two cars, on side-lights, drove down the runway at speed. He saw the memorial stone where the gate had once been, but he did not slow and swept past it. Naylor had no more business with ghosts and their place. On the main road, he snapped on his headlights and saw in his mirror those of the car behind him.
'You all right, Joe?'
'You bet I'm all right. And in the next several hours it'll get better, believe me.'
On the dashboard was the lit clock. He knew where he should have been and would not be.
As an assistant director, Tristram was host to the party.
It was a wedding without a groom, a play without Denmark's prince.
He thought her magnificent — she was the bride and Ophelia in one. More to the point, Anne Naylor was a trouper of the old school. He eased towards her. If her temper was foul, if she was bottling her anger, she guarded it closely. Canapés were being handed round on plates, and little sandwich triangles. It was a fine dress she wore, obviously new, purchased for the occasion, and if she was mad with fury she hid it successfully. What he would have expected from the daughter of a Cold War legend: the woman had pedigree. He thought they could make do with two glasses of wine each — maybe a splatter of a refill for the toast after his speech, but there would not be much drinking done. As soon as was proper, he would escort Anne Naylor to the Embankment entrance, with the envelope of vouchers in her handbag, see her into the car and wave her off…There was still work to be done that night.
And quite a good turnout, considering the pressure of that work. An older group of Dickie Naylor's contemporaries, and the younger ones who sat in his office…Mary Reakes among them. Within ten minutes of Anne Naylor leaving, the car barely over Lambeth Bridge, the room would have emptied. Would he have walked those last miles, trudged through those last hours, up to the last chime of the damned clock? Would he hell. Damn right, he would not. But it was in his speech: Dickie Naylor was 'a shining example to all of dedication and commitment and duty, a safe pair of hands'. It was not in his speech that the man was, in Tristram's opinion, a bloody fool and a pliant one.
He was at the wife's shoulder. His hand on her elbow, he eased her from the group. He led her to a quieter corner. 'Anne, you're putting up such a terrific show.'
'I'll bloody well murder him.'
'And taking it so well.'
'He'll regret the day he was ever bloody born.'
'It's a moment when he, dear Dickie, has more to contribute than any of us.'
'Bullshit. I'll bloody swing for him.'
'There's a heavy flap on, Anne. Dangerous times, you know, and all that. Right now, he's rather a crucial cog in the works — can't say where those wheels are turning. He'll be home in the morning.'
'Likely to find the bloody locks changed.'
'Then you can go out together, everything forgotten, and buy that greenhouse.'
'Then barricade him into it.'
'I knew you'd understand, Anne. Well done.'
He slipped away. Tristram was now in hourly contact with Dickie Naylor and the motley elements he travelled with — the increments from the Inner Hebrides and the Riyadh agent. There were, of course, no written records of past conversations and he thought of Dickie as a kitchen rag hung out on a line at the mercy of the elements. Himself, no damn way would he have offered up so many hostages…Himself, he was near completion of an illustrious career, not one of mediocrity. He saw glasses being refilled, but not liberally, and moved to the side. He looked around, at the table from which the wine came, checked that the envelope was there, searched for a spoon with which to rap a glass and win attention…and saw Mary Reakes advance on him.
She said, as crisp and cold as frozen snow, 'At a personal level, I want you to know I'm not happy with our handling of events. I'm asking, which is my privilege, for a one-on-one with the director general.'
'It's not the time, Mary, and not the place for us to discuss your happiness.'
'Just thought you should know of my intentions before you dig yourself deeper into this cesspit.'
'Always better if we stay on the same song sheet…Because of the nature of things, the DG's in tomorrow morning — I'm sure he'll fit you and your conscience into his schedule. Thank you for taking me into your confidence. Please excuse me, I've a speech to make.'
He lifted a spoon off the table and rapped the glass.
She laid out the clothes he would wear, placed each item on the plastic bag that held the waistcoat.
His eyes were on her, duller and without the brightness of the low candle's flame.
Last on the pile was the white T-shirt with the spitting swan on the front, where he would see its anger and defiance.
She sensed his weakness and knew what she must do.
She bent, cupped a hand on the flame, blew once, sharply, on it.
The flame wavered and was gone. She groped across the floor and crawled over the rumpled roll of the carpet, smelt it and gagged. Her fingers touched him. He flinched from her. It must be done or the weakness would overwhelm him.
It was where Faria had never been before, and she thought neither had he.
Her fingers were on his face, then caught at the back of his neck and she eased a knee over his legs. He did not struggle against her. She kissed him, his mouth against hers, his lips moist against hers. She pushed her tongue on to his teeth, forced his mouth wider. Her tongue licked the inside of him and she tasted the food she had brought back with the bucket. She wriggled tighter against him.
If it were not done, in the morning he might turn, or freeze, or run. It was to strengthen him.
Her hands came from his neck and slid down his body, so slight and frail, and across the bones that made the cage of his ribs, and came to his belt. She unfastened the belt, then the upper button of his trousers and drew down the zip. Her hands climbed again. She pulled the jersey off him and the shirt. She had to lift each arm because he did not help her. It was done so slowly, but the layers came off and then she could touch the expanse of the skin, and she sensed his heart pounding. She used her nails to make patterns on his now hairless chest — the same patterns that had been made on her skin by the man, and into the navel, as the man had done. She had said then: It is never the leaders who make the sacrifice. Had said in anger: He is the one with true courage. Her breath came faster, as the man had made it.
She broke the patterns. Faria took his hands and guided them under her upper clothing to her breasts. She bared herself and led his hands to the fastening clips on her back. He did not know how to do it. There were girls, white girls, on the streets near to the Dallow Road, not aged fifteen, who knew how to undress for a few seconds of writhing, and boys from near to the Dallow Road, not yet at their fifteenth birthday, who could have stripped her and unfastened each clip and each stud within moments…and she was twenty-four and the boy, she thought, was past twenty…and neither of them knew how. So they learned.
They learned. Her purpose in learning was that he would walk better in the morning — not stop, not cringe, not reject what was asked of him…They fumbled, the one as inexpert as the other.