Our Kind Of Traitor Part 7

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

A second flinch. No more productive than the first.

'You listening, Gail?'

What the f.u.c.k d'you think I'm doing? Singing 'The Mikado'?

'You're a good lawyer and you've got a splendid career in front of you.'

'Thank you.'

'Your big case is coming up in two weeks' time. Is that a fair summary?'

Yes, Perry, that is a fair summary. I have a splendid career in front of me, unless we decide to have six children instead, and the case of Samson v. Samson Samson v. Samson is set to be heard fifteen days from now, but if I know anything about our leading silk, I'm unlikely to get a word in edgeways. is set to be heard fifteen days from now, but if I know anything about our leading silk, I'm unlikely to get a word in edgeways.

'You're the shining star of a prestigious law Chambers. You're worked off your feet. You've told me so often enough.'

Yes indeed, it's true, I'm appallingly overworked. A young barrister should be so lucky, we have just endured the worst night of our lives by several lengths, and what the f.u.c.k are you trying to tell me through the orange in your mouth? Perry, you can't do this! Come back! But she only thinks it. The words have run out. But she only thinks it. The words have run out.

'We draw a line. A line in the sand. Whatever Dima told me is private to me. What Tamara told you is private to you. We don't cross over. We exercise client confidentiality.'

Her power of speech returns. 'Are you telling me Dima is your client client now? You're as loony as they are.' now? You're as loony as they are.'

'I'm using a legal metaphor. Taken from your world, not mine. I'm saying, Dima's my client and Tamara's yours. Conceptually.'

'Tamara didn't speak speak, Perry. Not one solitary, f.u.c.king f.u.c.king word. She thinks the birds round here are bugged. Periodically, she was moved to offer up a prayer in Russian to one of her bearded protectors, at which point she signed at me to kneel down beside her, and I obliged. I'm not an Anglican atheist any more, I'm a Russian Orthodox atheist. There is otherwise absolutely f.u.c.k-all that pa.s.sed between Tamara and myself that I'm not prepared to share with you in the finest detail, and I've just shared it. My princ.i.p.al anxiety was that I might get my hand bitten off. I didn't. Both my hands are intact. Now it's your turn.' word. She thinks the birds round here are bugged. Periodically, she was moved to offer up a prayer in Russian to one of her bearded protectors, at which point she signed at me to kneel down beside her, and I obliged. I'm not an Anglican atheist any more, I'm a Russian Orthodox atheist. There is otherwise absolutely f.u.c.k-all that pa.s.sed between Tamara and myself that I'm not prepared to share with you in the finest detail, and I've just shared it. My princ.i.p.al anxiety was that I might get my hand bitten off. I didn't. Both my hands are intact. Now it's your turn.'

'Sorry, Gail. I can't.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I'm not telling. I refuse to drag you any deeper into this affair than you are already. I want you kept clean. Safe.'

'You want?'

'No. I don't want want. I insist. I'm not to be wooed.'

Wooed? Is this Perry talking? Or the firebrand preacher from Huddersfield that he was named after? Is this Perry talking? Or the firebrand preacher from Huddersfield that he was named after?

'I'm deadly serious,' he adds, in case she doubted it.

Then a different Perry transmogrifies out of the first one. Out of my beloved, striving Jekyll comes an infinitely less appetizing Mr Hyde of the British Secret Service: 'You also talked to Natasha, I noticed. For quite some time.'

'Yes.'

'Alone.'

'Not alone, actually. We had two small girls with us but they were asleep.'

'Then effectively alone.'

'Is that a crime?'

'She's a source.'

'She's a what what?'

'Did she talk to you about her father?'

'Come again?'

'I said: did she talk to you about her father?'

'Pa.s.s.'

'I'm serious, Gail.'

'So am I. Deadly. Pa.s.s, and either mind your own f.u.c.king business, or tell me what Dima said to you.'

'Did she talk to you about what Dima does for a living? Who he plays with, who he trusts, who they're so afraid of? Anything of that sort that you know, you should write it down too. It could be vitally important.'

On which note, he retires to the bathroom and to his mortal shame turns the lock.

For half an hour Gail sits huddled on the balcony with the bedspread over her shoulders because she's too drained to undress. She remembers the rum bottle, hangover guaranteed, pours herself a tot regardless, and dozes. She wakes to find the bathroom door open and Ace Operator Perry framed crookedly in the doorway, not sure whether to come out. He is clutching half her legal pad in both hands behind his back. She can see a corner of it poking out and it's covered in his handwriting.

'Have a drink,' she suggests, indicating the rum bottle.

He ignores her.

'I'm sorry,' he says. Then he clears his throat and says it again: 'I'm really very sorry, Gail.'

Chucking pride and reason to the winds, she impulsively jumps up, runs to him and embraces him. In the interests of security, he keeps his arms behind him. She has never seen Perry frightened before, but he's frightened now. Not for himself. For her.

She peers blearily at her watch. Two-thirty. She stands up, intending to give herself another gla.s.s of Rioja, thinks better of it, sits in Perry's favourite chair and discovers she is under the blanket with Natasha.

'So what does he do, your Max?' she asks.

'He completely loves me,' Natasha replies. 'Also physically.'

'I meant, apart from that, what does he do for a living?' Gail explains, careful not to smile.

It's approaching midnight. To escape the cold winds and amuse two very tired little orphan girls, Gail has made a tent out of blankets and cushions in the lee of the protective wall that borders the garden. Out of nowhere, Natasha has appeared without a book. First Gail identifies her Grecian sandals through a gap in the blankets, waiting to come on stage. For minutes on end they remain there. Is she listening? Is she plucking up her courage? For what? Is she contemplating a surprise a.s.sault to amuse the children? Since Gail has not so far exchanged a single word with Natasha, she has no picture of her possible motivations.

The flap parts, a Grecian sandal cautiously enters, followed by a knee and Natasha's averted head, curtained by her long black hair. Then a second sandal and the rest of her. The little girls, fast asleep, have not stirred. For more minutes on end Gail and Natasha lie head to head, mutely watching through the open flap as salvos of rockets are detonated with uncomfortable proficiency by Niki and his comrades-in-arms. Natasha is shivering. Gail pulls a blanket over both of them.

'It appears that I am recently pregnant,' Natasha observes, in groomed Jane Austen English, addressing not Gail but a display of fluorescent peac.o.c.k feathers dripping down the night sky.

If you are lucky enough to receive the confessions of the young, it is wise to keep your eyes fixed on a common object in the far distance, rather than on one another: Gail Perkins, ipsissima verba ipsissima verba. In the days before she began reading for the Bar, she taught at a school for children with learning difficulties, and this was one of the things she learned. And if a beautiful girl who is just sixteen confides in you out of the blue that she believes she may be pregnant, the lesson becomes doubly important.

'At present time, Max is ski instructor,' Natasha replies to Gail's casually pitched inquiry as to the possible parentage of her expected child. 'But this is temporary. He will be architect and build houses for poor people with no money. Max is very creative, also very sensitive.'

There is no humour in her voice. True love is too serious for that.

'And his parents, what do they do, I wonder?' Gail asks.

'They have hotel. It is for tourists. It is inferior, but Max is completely philosophical regarding material matters.'

'A hotel in the mountains?'

'In Kandersteg. This is village in the mountains, very touristic.'

Gail says she has never been to Kandersteg but Perry has taken part in a ski race there.

'The mother of Max is without culture but she is sympathetic and spiritual like her son. The father is completely negative. An idiot.'

Keep it ba.n.a.l. 'So does Max belong to the official ski school,' Gail asks, 'or is he what they call private?'

'Max is completely private. He skis only with those he respects. He loves best off-piste, which is aesthetic. Also glacier skiing.'

It was in a remote hut high above Kandersteg, Natasha says, that they astonished themselves with their pa.s.sion: 'I was virgin. Also incompetent. Max is completely considerate. It is his nature to be considerate to all people. Even in pa.s.sion, he is completely considerate.'

Determinedly in pursuit of the commonplace, Gail asks Natasha where she is with her studies, what subjects she is best at, and what examinations she has fixed her sights on. Since coming to live with Dima and Tamara, Natasha replies, she has been attending Roman Catholic convent school in the Canton of Fribourg as a weekly boarder: 'Unfortunately, I do not believe in G.o.d, but this is irrelevant. In life it is frequently necessary to simulate religious conviction. I like best art. Max also is very artistic. Maybe we shall both study art together at St Petersburg or Cambridge. It will be decided.'

'Is he Catholic?'

'In his practices Max is compliant with his family religion. This is because he is dutiful. But in his soul he believes in all G.o.ds.'

And in bed bed? Gail wonders, but does not ask: is he still compliant with his family religion?

'So who else knows about you and Max?' she asks in the same comfortable, light-hearted tone that she has so far managed to maintain. 'Apart from his parents, obviously. Or don't they know either, perhaps?'

'The situation is complicated. Max has sworn extremely strong oath that he will tell no one of our love. On this I have insisted.'

'Not even his mother?'

'The mother of Max is not reliable. She is inhibited by bourgeois instincts, also loquacious. If it is convenient for her, she will tell her husband, also many other bourgeois persons.'

'Is that so very bad?'

'If Dima knows that Max is my lover, it is possible Dima will kill him. Dima is not stranger to physicality. It is his nature.'

'And Tamara?'

'Tamara is not my mother,' she snaps, with a flash of her father's physicality.

'So what will you do if you discover you really are having the baby?' Gail asks lightly, as a battery of Roman candles ignites the landscape.

'At moment of confirmation, we shall immediately escape to distant place, perhaps Finland. Max will arrange this. At present time it is not convenient because he is also summer guide. We shall wait one more month. Maybe it will be possible to study in Helsinki. Maybe we shall kill ourselves. We shall see.'

Gail leaves the worst question till last, perhaps because her bourgeois instincts have warned her of the answer: 'And your Max is how old, Natasha?'

'Thirty-one. But in his heart he is child.'

As you are, Natasha. So is this a fairy tale you're spinning me under the Caribbean stars, a fantasy of the dream lover you will one day meet? Or have you really been to bed with a little s.h.i.t of a thirty-one-year-old ski b.u.m who doesn't tell his mother? Because if you have, you've come to the right address: me Gail had been a bit older, not much. The boy in the case wasn't a ski b.u.m but a penniless mixed-race reject from a local grammar school with divorced parents in South Africa. Her mother had departed the family nest three years ago, leaving no forwarding address. Her alcoholic father, far from being a physical threat, was in hospital with terminal liver failure. With money borrowed from friends, Gail had the baby clumsily aborted, and never told the boy.

And as of tonight, she hasn't got around to telling Perry either. On present form she wonders whether she ever will.

From the handbag she nearly left in Ollie's cab, Gail fishes out her mobile and checks it for new messages. Finding none, she scrolls back. Natasha's are in capitals for extra drama. Four of them are spread over a single week: I HAVE BETRAYED MY FATHER I AM SHAME.YESTERDAY WE BURY MISHA AND OLGA IN BEAUTIFUL CHURCH MAYBE I JOIN THEM SOON.PLEASE INFORM WHEN IS NORMAL TO VOMIT IN MORNINGS?.

followed by Gail's reply, stored in her saved messages: Roughly first three months, but if you are being sick, see doctor IMMEDIATELY, x.x.xx GAIL to which Natasha duly takes offence: PLEASE DO NOT SAY I AM SICK. LOVE IS NOT SICKNESS. NATASHA.

If she's pregnant, she needs me.

If she's not not pregnant, she needs me. pregnant, she needs me.

If she's a screwed-up teenaged girl fantasizing about killing herself, she needs me.

I'm her lawyer and confidante.

I'm all she's got.

Perry's line in the sand is drawn.

It is non-negotiable and non-tidal.

Not even tennis works any more. The Indian honeymooners have gone. Singles are too tense. Mark is enemy.

If their lovemaking allows them temporarily to forget its presence, the line is still there waiting to divide them afterwards.

Seated on their balcony after dinner, they gaze at the arc of white security lights hanging over the end of the peninsula. If Gail is hoping for a glimpse of the girls, who is Perry hoping for a glimpse of?

Of Dima, his Jay Gatsby? Of Dima, his personal Kurtz? Or some other flawed hero of his beloved Joseph Conrad?

The sensation that they are being listened to and watched is with them every hour of the day and night. Even if Perry were to break his self-imposed rule of silence, the fear of being overheard would seal his lips.

With two days to go, Perry rises at six and takes an early run. After a lie-in, Gail makes her way to the Captain's Deck resigned to a solitary breakfast, only to find him conspiring with Ambrose to bring forward their departure date. Ambrose regrets that their tickets aren't changeable: 'Now if you was to have said yesterday yesterday, you could have flown right along with Mr Dima and his family. Except they was all first cla.s.s and you're plain old economy. Looks like you got no choice but to stick this little old island out for one more day.'

They tried to. They walked into town and looked at whatever they were supposed to look at. Perry lectured her on the sins of slavery. They went to a beach on the other side of the island and snorkled, but they were just two more Brits who didn't know what to do with so much sun.

It wasn't till dinner at the Captain's Deck that Gail finally lost it. Ignoring the embargo that Perry has imposed on their conversations in the cabin, he asks her, unbelievably, whether by any chance she knows anybody in 'the British Intelligence scene'.