Exposure (10 page)

Lily sits on the red sofa, as she has been told. ‘Please sit down here, Mrs Callington.’ There’s a policewoman with her now, but no one has asked Lily any further questions. They tramp purposefully around the house. She hears the lifting of the metal plate on top of the stove, and the unlocking of the back door. They’ll go down the path and into the shed, and search all around it. Lily rehearses in her mind all the steps she took to conceal the burial of the briefcase. The scuffing of leaves, the covering of garden rubbish, the brambles pulled forward. There’s nothing to see, but her heart beats fast
and there’s a lump in her stomach, as if she has eaten too much.

She draws her knees together, and straightens her back. There they are, overhead, in her and Simon’s bedroom. She can’t help glancing upwards, and the policewoman does the same. She’s wearing very thick make-up: pancake, Lily thinks. Probably she has a bad skin. But it’s surprising that she is allowed to wear so much make-up on duty. It makes her look like a man in drag.

They have searched Lily’s handbag, and all the downstairs drawers. When she first saw the policewoman, she was afraid that they meant to search her personally, but nothing happened. She wonders exactly what it is that they are looking for. The file would be too big to fit into Lily’s handbag. They are going through everything: the cutlery drawers, and the kitchen cabinets. She listens. One by one she identifies them: creak and swing of cupboard doors, chink of knives and forks, rattle of pans. All the everyday sounds of her life. It’s Sunday evening. She should be in the kitchen, laying the table for breakfast, preparing everything for the week that lies ahead.

Policemen are going through her kitchen cupboards. Nothing can be put back in its right place now.

The sitting-room door opens, and a man in a dark civilian suit enters. He sits down in the armchair opposite Lily – in Simon’s chair – and puts his hands on his knees, giving Lily a small smile which she cannot read. Possibly it is apologetic. It looks as if he is separate from the uniformed officers who are tramping up and down her stairs in their boots, over the turquoise carpet that she bought with her first year of part-time earnings. She expects him to introduce himself, but instead he opens his mouth and addresses her. She cannot understand a word of what he says. He stops speaking, and raises his eyebrows.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I don’t understand you.’ Belatedly, it comes to her: she knows that mesh of sounds. He’s speaking German.

‘But you are German,’ he says. His voice is flat and strong, reasonable, sure of itself.

‘I am British by naturalisation.’ He hasn’t told her his name. Why hasn’t he?

‘You were born in Berlin. You went to school there. Of course you understand German.’

‘I left Berlin when I was a child. Since then I have spoken nothing but English.’

‘And you are married to an Englishman.’

She glances round, and sees that the policewoman has a shorthand pad on her knee, and is taking notes.

‘You are married to an Englishman,’ he repeats.

‘Yes.’

‘And your husband works at the Admiralty.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you understand the work of the Admiralty?’

Lily hesitates. ‘To some extent.’

‘To some extent. You know the nature of your husband’s work?’

‘He doesn’t discuss it with me.’

‘Never?’

‘I suppose – Sometimes a man will mention something about his office life.’

‘Of course he will.’ He seems pleased with her.

‘But it’s nothing,’ she says quickly. ‘Only that it wouldn’t be natural for a man to – not one word about his work—’

‘It wouldn’t be natural for a man to – not one word about his work,’ he repeats. ‘You know, Mrs Callington, you
do
sound a little German. Perhaps you were being modest when you said you couldn’t speak it?’

‘I’ve said already that I don’t.’

‘So. We’ve established that your husband sometimes talks to you about his work at the Admiralty.’

‘That’s not what I said—’

‘He talks to you. Does he also talk to others?’

‘Of course he doesn’t.’

‘You know, I am sure, that he has signed the Official Secrets Act?’

‘Yes.’

‘He has discussed that with you?’

‘No! It’s just that I knew – I assumed—’

‘You knew, and you assumed.’

‘Simon would never discuss with me anything that was covered by the Official Secrets Act.’

‘Do you mean that he might discuss such things with anyone else, Mrs Callington?’

‘Of course not. Of course that’s not what I mean. You are deliberately misunderstanding what I say. I think you misunderstand my husband’s work as well. He is not in a senior position.’ Even as she said it, she felt a stab of betrayal. It might sound as if she were belittling Simon.

‘I am not quite sure, Mrs Callington, that
you
perfectly understand what I am asking you. Perhaps your English is not quite as excellent as you believe it to be.’ Again, suddenly, he switches into another language. This time she knows it’s not German. It isn’t French, Italian or Spanish.

‘You don’t understand me, Mrs Callington?’

‘I don’t even know what language you’re speaking.’

‘And yet you speak English, French, Italian. You speak French well enough to teach it. You are quite a linguist, Mrs Callington, and yet you don’t understand
a word of your mother-tongue and you don’t even recognise the language in which I’ve just been speaking to you.’

Lily says nothing.

‘Well? Is that correct?’

‘I don’t know if it is
correct
,’ she says, laying a slight emphasis on the word. ‘But it is the case.’

At once, sweat starts out under her arms. A blunder. She used that word because she was thinking of the briefcase. Can he see her thoughts? If she hadn’t been thinking of the briefcase she would have answered, ‘It is the truth.’ She must be careful. This man knows what he is about. She is on the defensive and likely to make mistakes.

He doesn’t take her up on the word. He is quite relaxed, it appears. He watches her face closely, but without obvious suspicion. This is England, she thinks. They cannot throw you down the stairs or lock you into a standing cell until they get the answers they want. They don’t do things like that here.

‘Has your husband changed his habits recently? Home late, different routine
und so weiter
?’

‘No.’

‘Did you recognise the words I just spoke?’

‘No.’

‘They were German. Do you consider yourself English, Mrs Callington?’

She hesitates just a moment too long. ‘I’m married to an Englishman. My children are English. My life and my work are here. I am a naturalised British subject.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘What right have you to ask me such a question?’

He sighs, and crosses his legs. ‘This is a perfectly normal part of our investigation, Mrs Callington. I’m sorry if it upsets you. What were you doing on April the eighteenth this year?’

‘April the eighteenth?’ She can’t help an upsurge of relief. That was months ago. It can’t be anything to do with the briefcase or the file. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember. I’d have to look at my diary—’

‘You keep a diary?’

‘Just for my work and the children’s appointments.’

‘Where is it?’

‘In my handbag. It has already been looked at.’ One of the policemen took it out of her bag, opened it and riffled the pages with his thumb, then put it aside.

‘I’m surprised you don’t remember what you were doing on April the eighteenth. It was a big occasion. You were at the CND rally in Trafalgar Square.’

She had forgotten the date. They must have photographs. She signed a petition, too. She didn’t want to go at first, because, as usual, her instinct was to keep her head down. But Erica was going. They talked about it one cold afternoon, outside the school. Erica was taking the baby, even though Clare was only two months old.

‘It’s her future. All the children’s future. We’ve got to do something, Lily. Those idiots are quite capable of blowing up the whole world.’ Erica for once not smiling, not ironic, but lit up with anger.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Lily, and Erica let go of the pram handles to hug her.

‘You were there with a friend,’ says the dark-suited man now. ‘Not your husband?’

‘No.’

‘The same friend, I believe, who has just collected your children. She took her baby along, didn’t she? Quite a surprising decision on her part. How many people were there in Trafalgar Square that day?’

‘A hundred thousand.’

‘Sixty thousand, I think. Even so, a large crowd. Crowds can be dangerous places. You should know that.’

‘It was peaceful. There were lots of children there.’

‘So, you were there with your friend and her baby. You have three children yourself, but you didn’t take any of them with you. I wonder, why was that? And your husband wasn’t there either.’

‘He couldn’t go to a CND rally. He works at the Admiralty.’

‘But he wanted to go, didn’t he? He sympathised with the aims of the march. He would have liked to go with you.’

‘No.’

‘He
didn’t
want to accompany you?’

‘No.’

‘You argued about it?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then he was content for you to go. You, Mrs Callington, felt strongly enough that you encouraged
your friend to take a baby, almost a newborn baby, to a rally where many thousands of people would be present.’

She would like to say:
It was Erica who urged me.
But if she says that, will they go to Erica’s house next and question her? Erica’s looking after all the children. They’re safe with her. She’ll find the right words to calm Bridget down.

She has told the truth. Simon didn’t go to the rally. He met her afterwards, outside the National Gallery, as they’d arranged. Her mother was visiting, so there was no need to get back for the children. They had supper in Soho later. Those evenings without the children were so rare that she remembers every one of them. She can see Simon now, on the gallery steps, among the flood of people, looking for her.

‘There were all kinds of people in Trafalgar Square,’ she says instead. ‘Old people, families. There were other babies.’

The sharp April sunlight was in her face. They brought a rug and found a corner, shielded by the pram, so that Erica could feed the baby. The light spilled on Erica’s hair as she bent over the baby’s soft skull. Lily saw the pulsing of Clare’s fontanelle. She had never seen so many people all together, and they were still coming. Hundreds and thousands of them pouring into Trafalgar Square.

Ah, but you have seen so many people, Lili. In Berlin, don’t you remember?

Posters and banners were everywhere. One read:
‘For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast’. The atmosphere was calm and almost cheerful as the speeches began. The sun was too bright for the baby and she was screwing up her eyes. Easter time: a time for beginnings. A thousand suns exploded at Hiroshima. Children turned to ash in seconds. Maybe they left a shadow on a wall. What kind of a world is it into which we have brought our children? Young men and women chanted with upturned faces:
Ban the Bomb! Ban the Bomb!
She watched their happiness, their passion and innocence, as if she were a thousand years old. The surge and mass of it, and the April sun much too bright.

‘All kinds of people, indeed. What kind of person would you describe yourself as being, Mrs Callington?’

‘Why are you asking me these questions? Why have you arrested my husband?’

He sits back, as if at last she has said what he wants. ‘I was wondering when you were going to ask me that question. You might have shown some curiosity on that point earlier, to be frank. But perhaps there was no need.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think, Mrs Callington, that with your excellent grasp of English you must know what I mean. You did not ask because you were not curious. You were not curious, because you knew.’

‘Of course I didn’t know! How could I? I don’t know what any of this is about.’

‘Very well. We’ll leave it at that.’ And he actually
stands up, still faintly smiling, and steps forward. He towers over her as she sits on the red sofa.

She is at Stopstone. Callington land. It’s a hot day, and she and Simon have planned to take a picnic to the river, but there is something wrong with his car. He’s gone to the garage in the village to see if it can be fixed. He thinks it’s something quite simple, the spark plugs perhaps. Lily wanted to go with him, but he said it would be a lot of standing around in the heat. Better to stay here and relax in the garden.

She’s lying on one of the steamer chairs in her brown linen shorts and yellow Aertex shirt, book at her side on the grass, eyes half-shut. It’s too hot. In a minute she’ll have to pull the chair into the shade. Flies are buzzing. There’s a lake at the bottom of the slope beyond the lawns. The water draws the flies. When Lily first saw the lake in the distance, she was delighted. She and Simon could take a boat out. Perhaps they would swim. But when she walked down to it, she saw that it was murky, tangled with weed. There was a jetty with broken and missing planks. She asked Simon why the lake was so neglected and he shrugged and said, ‘We used to fish in it a lot.’

‘Didn’t you swim?’

‘Yes. There wasn’t all this weed then.’ He hesitates, then blurts out: ‘The gardener’s little girl drowned there, about ten years ago. After that, no one much fancied swimming. And then I suppose we got out of the habit.’

‘How terrible.’

‘It’s a pretty filthy place now. It’s an artificial lake, you know. The drains are clogged. I keep telling them to get it seen to, but no one can be bothered.’

The flies buzz. There are bees, too, in the nearby beds. The colours of the flowers here are so violent. She ought to get out of this sun—

Shadows fall, blocking out the light. Her eyes snap open.

‘Well, if it isn’t Lily. Where’s the Milkman?’

Simon’s brothers. Not like him: big-built, fair-haired, with small, inexpressive eyes. She doesn’t like them.

‘Simon has taken the car to the garage.’

‘We’ll have to do our best to entertain you, then, shan’t we, Rupe?’

‘Absolutely, Rog. Got any ideas?’

‘It’s bloody hot, isn’t it? How about a swim?’

‘In the lake?’

‘Why not?’

‘Off we go then. Upsidaisy!’

As one, they swoop on Lily. Rupert has her ankles, Roger her wrists. She struggles fiercely, but they are much too strong for her, and she is afraid. They could run her into the woods and do whatever they liked. No one would believe her. What if she screamed? Simon wouldn’t hear. The parents might but they would do nothing. Besides, she is already too far from the house.

‘I don’t want to swim,’ she says furiously. She twists, trying to bite Roger’s wrist, but she cannot reach. The ground bumps and rushes below her. They’re carting her down the slope now.

‘Oh, we think you do, really.’

‘Put me down now!’

They’re laughing. She twists in their grip and they tighten it, burning her flesh. They are running her down over the lawn, over the rough ground below. They can’t be seen from the house here.

She jerks and thrashes once more, then goes still. She shuts her eyes and mouth, and goes deep inside herself. She is not here. The sound of their feet changes. They are not on land. They’ve taken her out on the rotting jetty. Now they are swinging her.

‘One! Two! THREE!’

She is flying. Her eyes open, catch wheeling sky and lake. Her right foot bangs against something hard. She hits the water on her back and her hair rushes up beside her. She strikes out. Weed catches her hands. She fights it off, swallowing down her horror.

Lily pulls up to the surface, treading water. She puts down a foot, fearful of tangling into weed and slime, but she’s out of her depth. Mud churns around her and something whips against her foot. She draws up her legs, shuddering. She mustn’t swim for the shore or she will get caught in the dense mat of weed and pulled down. The men will catch her if she heads for the jetty. She lies flat along the surface and very slowly sculls herself out, into clearer water. There they are, on the jetty, looking at her. She doesn’t think they will plunge after her into the lake. She swims deeper.