Goodbye to an Old Friend (17 page)

All my friends are coming back, he decided.

‘I gave it some biscuit crumbs,' reported Miss Aimes, appearing anxious to prove her initiative. ‘It seemed hungry.'

‘Thank you,' said Adrian. He would have to buy another packet of biscuits. But plain, not chocolate. He hoped his successor, if there were to be one, would take over the guardianship. Perhaps he would if before he went he got in a reasonable supply of food, maybe some birdseed even.

He sat at his desk, cupping his head in his hands, suddenly tired. It was all over. There was nothing left to do, apart from a few tidying-up reports. There
was
a feeling, he decided, thinking back to Binns's question. It was an emptiness, just a hollow emptiness. And if that's all it was, it was hardly worth all the effort.

He realized he hadn't bothered to protect his trousers with his seat pad. So what? Perhaps he wouldn't need it any more, after tomorrow. He wondered whether to make a present of it to Miss Aimes.

‘Can I have a word with you?'

Adrian looked up, frowning. If he hadn't known his secretary better he would have imagined a note of servility in her voice.

‘Of course. What is it?'

She paused, as if she had difficulty in selecting her words.

‘I'm leaving,' she said, bluntly.

‘What?'

‘I'm leaving. I've put in for a transfer and it's been granted. It'll mean going on to a higher grade.'

‘Oh,' he said. She would expect more. He groped for the necessary pleasantries.

‘I'm sorry,' he said, untruthfully.

‘So am I,' she replied, untruthfully.

This is ridiculous, he thought.

‘Where are you going?'

She smirked, glad he'd asked.

‘Sir Jocelyn's secretary is leaving. She's pregnant, you know.'

‘No,' replied Adrian. ‘I didn't know.'

Oh God, he thought, Miss Aimes and Earl Grey tea. Poor Sir Jocelyn.

‘I'll miss you,' he said, feeling the remark was necessary.

‘I regret leaving,' she said, joining in the charade. ‘But I didn't think I could miss the opportunity. It means another £300 a year.'

‘Oh, of course not,' agreed Adrian, quickly, ‘I quite understand.'

They sat staring at each other, completely out of words. There should be instructions, thought Adrian, a book on how to say goodbye to a secretary you didn't mind losing.

‘When are you leaving?' he asked.

‘Next Friday.'

‘Oh well, there's another week then.'

He wondered why he'd said that. It didn't mean anything. He'd have to buy her a farewell gift, he supposed, some perfume or some flowers or something. He smiled, amused at a sudden thought. Or a home perm.

Miss Aimes smiled back at him. ‘Yes,' she said, ‘there's another week.'

‘Would you mind if I left early tonight?' she said, predictably. She saw the look on his face and added, ‘I'm going up to see Sir Jocelyn's secretary, to learn the routine.'

‘Oh no,' he said. ‘No, of course not. I'll see you tomorrow.'

‘You're coming straight here?' she asked, perturbed at the thought of having to arrive reasonably near time.

‘Yes.' he said. ‘Straight here.'

‘Oh.' Disappointment again.

‘Good night.'

‘Good night.'

Adrian stood at the window after Miss Aimes had gone, looking out at the bird. A pigeon with a broken beak in exchange for Miss Aimes, he thought. One bird for another. Comparably, the pigeon walked more elegantly. He smiled. happy at the swop.

He felt in his pocket, where Pavel's letter was. Against it was another, one that had been delivered that morning. He didn't feel like it, but it had to be done. It took him thirty minutes to reach the flat where Anita was living with the other woman. He nodded to the porter as he walked in and the man returned the greeting, recognizing him. The medal ribbon had been sewn on the correct way, Adrian noticed.

‘They expecting you?'

‘No.'

‘I'd better check then.'

‘Yes. You'd better.'

The porter mumbled into the house phone and then said, ‘Miss Sinclair says to go up.'

She was waiting for him by the open door when he stepped out of the lift, smiling pleasantly. Adrian thought how beautiful she was.

‘Hello.'

‘Hello.'

They shook hands. Again he was surprised by how soft and feminine her grip was.

‘Whisky, brandy or sherry?' she asked, closing the door.

Just like the housemaster's wife, he decided again.

‘Whisky.'

She handed him the drink, took her usual brandy and sat opposite.

‘How are you?' she asked, as if they were old friends.

He shrugged, undecided. ‘All right,' he said.

‘You don't sound very sure.'

‘I'm not.'

‘Oh.' She sat, waiting.

‘I had a letter from my solicitor this morning,' he said. ‘He's been told by Anita's solicitor that there was some difficulty in getting any instructions from her. Apparently she isn't replying to their letters.'

‘No,' agreed Anne. ‘She isn't.'

She nodded to the hall table and Adrian twisted, seeing the buff envelopes.

He turned back to her. ‘I don't understand.'

‘Anita isn't here any more,' she said.

‘Not here?'

‘She walked out, several days ago.'

‘You mean … that you and she …?'

‘I mean that we had a blazing row and she packed her bags and cleared out and we're not living together any more.'

‘Oh …' said Adrian. ‘I'm …' he managed to stop before completing the sentence, but Anne smiled, guessing he was going to say he was sorry.

‘You're a funny man, Adrian.'

He said nothing.

‘I don't know where she is,' she continued, anticipating his question. ‘I thought she might even have gone back to you, but obviously, she hasn't.'

‘No,' he said, ‘she hasn't.'

‘Is there anywhere else she could have gone?'

Adrian thought, trying to remember relatives.

‘No,' he said, ‘I don't think there is.'

‘Would you take her back?'

He jerked up at her question. ‘What?'

‘She believes that you'd take her back if she asked you. She's probably trying to pluck up courage. Would you?'

Again Adrian hesitated before replying. ‘No,' he said after several moments. ‘No, I don't think I would. Not now.'

‘I'm surprised,' said Anne Sinclair.

Adrian smiled at her. ‘To be perfectly honest, so am I,' he said. He added, seriously, ‘But I don't think I would.'

‘Poor Anita,' said the woman.

‘Do you think she'll contact you again?' asked Adrian.

Anne laughed. ‘No.' she said. ‘No, I don't. She quit work as well. Nobody knows where she is.'

‘If she does get in touch, will you ask her to call me?'

‘Of course.'

Anne was silent for a while, and then she said, ‘I think you
would
take her back, Adrian. I don't think you'd want to, but I think you would. You're too nice. You couldn't turn her away if you wanted to.'

‘Could you?' he said.

‘Yes,' said the woman. ‘Yes, I could say “no”. But then, I'm
not
so nice as you are.'

There was a sudden sound from the doorway and then footsteps and Adrian turned. A slim girl stood in the entrance, her red hair tied in a pony-tail and with hardly any makeup. She was very slim, boyish almost, dressed in tight fitting jeans and a shaggy lambskin waistcoat. A disillusioned hippie, judged Adrian. A new week, a new experience. She blushed, deeply embarrassed, at finding someone other than Anne Sinclair in the room.

‘Hello darling,' greeted Anne. ‘This is Adrian, Adrian Dodds.'

Adrian stood up and turned to face her.

‘Hello,' he said.

‘Hello,' replied the girl, still confused. She looked at the older woman for guidance, got none and then came back to Adrian. There was a long silence and Adrian got the impression that Anne was enjoying it.

‘I'll … ah … I'll make some coffee. Would you like some coffee?' asked the young girl, ignoring the whisky glass in his hand.

Adrian smiled at her, feeling great pity.

‘Yes. Yes please, I would,' he said.

They stood watching as the girl, still wearing her lambskin coat, escaped into the kitchen.

Adrian turned back to Anne, who shrugged.

‘Life must go on,' she said.

‘Yes,' said Adrian, ‘yes, of course.' He paused. ‘I think I'll go before she comes back.'

She looked towards the kitchen. ‘Yes,' she said, ‘that would be kind.'

She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye,' she said. ‘We won't meet again, will we?'

‘No,' said Adrian. ‘We won't.'

‘You know,' said Anne Sinclair, at the doorway, ‘I wish I were as kind as you.'

There was a mirror in the lift and Adrian stared at his reflection as he descended. I haven't thought about it for a long time, he thought. All this trouble and suicide hasn't occurred to me. He suddenly felt very happy.

The lift stopped and the doors opened, but Adrian make no attempt to leave. He stood, studying his reflection, like someone introduced to a stranger. He was aware of the porter staring at him, curiously, but he didn't care. The buzzer sounded as someone summoned the lift several floors above.

‘You all right?' called the porter.

Reluctantly Adrian got out. He smiled at the attendant.

‘Yes,' he said, ‘as a matter of fact I'm fine, just fine.'

He stopped. The porter wore a wig, an obvious National Health wig. He hadn't noticed that, either.

‘Fine,' he repeated, ‘just fine.'

The porter watched him walk out of the door.

‘Bloody fool,' said the man, to himself.

Chapter Fourteen

Pavel sat alone in the reserved section of the Ilyushin airliner, watching as the plane taxied towards Sheremetyevo control tower, with its surround of coloured lights. In Paris once, many years before, he had been driven past a funfair and there had been several sideshows and amusement rides decorated the same way and he was always reminded of it when he arrived at Moscow airport. He had always regretted not stopping at that funfair, even riding like a child on one of the imitation animals constantly chasing its own tail.

This would be the last time, he realized suddenly. He would never again depart or arrive and be reminded of a Paris funfair he should have visited. He had made his last trip abroad, ever. He sighed and stood up, pulling his raincoat and cardboard case from the rack. It didn't matter. Only one thing mattered.

Everyone else was held while he disembarked, walking alone down the steps that had been run especially into the front of the aircraft.

There were a few militiamen around the car and Pavel saw he was to get a motorcycle escort into the capital. Everything is back to normal, he thought. A driver respectfully held the door open for him. Back in his accustomed environment, Pavel nodded curtly and handed his luggage to the man, then got into the gleaming black Zil without speaking. He stopped, half in, half out, still crouched.

Kaganov lounged in the back, in the far corner.

‘Welcome back,' said the chairman.

Pavel completed his entry, wedging himself into the opposite corner. He did not return the greeting.

The driver turned, looking to Kaganov rather than Pavel for guidance. The chairman, who was wearing military uniform unmarked by any insignia, nodded and the car pulled out and a convoy formed around it.

‘Welcome back,' repeated Kaganov. ‘And my congratulations. You were very accurate. Everything went as planned.'

‘You hardly thought I'd fail, did you?' snapped Pavel. He wore arrogance like an overcoat, a protection against the cold.

‘No,' agreed Kaganov, pleasantly. ‘We didn't think you'd fail.'

‘What about my family?' asked Pavel.

‘They're perfectly all right,' assured Kaganov. ‘Just as we promised you they would be.'

‘And Georgi?'

‘He was brought back from the Chinese front two days ago. He's attached to the Kremlin now. He'll be home with you every weekend until he finishes his service.'

‘I have your word?'

‘I told you before you went,' rebuked Kaganov, mildly. ‘If you kept your side of the bargain, we'd keep ours. Your family are in perfect health and looking forward to your return.'

The car was in the city now. They went by Krasnaya Ploshtchad and Pavel looked at the Kremlin beyond. It's beautiful, he thought. Beautiful and peaceful. Only people are ugly. They crossed Kammeni Bridge and turned right. Pavel looked into the park, where the trees were weeping their leaves at the thought of winter. A little month and it will be autumn, he thought. Everything will be dead, just like Bennovitch back there, all alone, in England.

‘I'm interested in the person who debriefed you.'

Kaganov broke into the reverie and Pavel turned to him.

‘What?'

‘The man who debriefed you.' He made the pretence of taking a notebook from his greatcoat pocket and checking the name. ‘Dodds, Adrian Dodds. According to what our people can gather at the embassy, the English regard him rather highly.'

Pavel remained looking across the car, saying nothing.

Kaganov reached into his briefcase at his feet and pulled out six photographs. Three were blurred, but the remainder were of good quality, although they had all obviously been taken by hidden cameras.

‘What do you want me to do?'

‘Identify him, if he's any of the men pictured here,' said Kaganov.

‘What for?' asked Pavel, aware of the answer.

Kaganov laughed and Pavel saw his false teeth were made of steel, dull and grey looking. They made laughter a horrifying grimace. Many Russians had had them made like that during the war, Pavel remembered, but only a few had kept them, for affectation. It gave Pavel another reason for despising the man.