Читать книгу The Mentor - Steve Jackson - Страница 13

Words float across the table, but there’s no substance to the conversation. It’s all part of the act. Words to pad out the silences, words to create the illusion that everything’s A-OK. After all, this is something we do once a month, schedules depending. Just two old friends getting together to chew the fat. As usual there’s the occasional stroll down memory lane, trips to places and events history turned a blind eye to, some shop talk. And as usual I smile when I’m supposed to smile, nod when I’m supposed to nod, let loose with the occasional laugh. My skin is prickling, the hairs on the back of my neck itching. And all the time I’m watching, taking everything in.

He reaches over the table, candlelight shadows streaking his face. As he grabs the bottle and tops up our glasses, he jokes about the cost of the wine. ‘At least we’re not picking up the tab, eh, Mac?’ I laugh with him. He’s nervous but hiding it well. Suspicious of silence, he’s anxious to keep the conversation going, working hard to avoid any awkward pauses.

The waiter brings our main course and presents my plate with a flourish. His stink is offensive, sweet and cloying; a caterpillar moustache crawls across his top lip. He steps back smiling. Can I get sir anything else? ‘No, thank you,’ I say, turning on the charm and firing a sunny smile right back at him. His smile widens and he’s so pleased that I’m pleased. He flutters back to the kitchen, weaving between tables positioned far enough apart to ensure privacy. All are occupied. Usually there’s a wait of a month to get in to Carmichael’s, but not for us. The maître d’ gets a monthly retainer. For what we’re paying it’s the least he could do.

I recognise some of the faces. Tabloid fodder for the most part. There are soap stars and pop stars, MPs and models. In a quiet corner a young movie wannabe is being entertained by a grey-haired man who’s old enough to be her grandfather. He’s got sagging jowls, piggy eyes and a stomach straining to get free from its black silk prison. A fat Hollywood cigar steams away between thick ring-encrusted fingers. The little poppet’s perfect in a little black dress. She’s got the perfect body, the perfect skin, the perfect teeth. Beauty and the Beast. I don’t recognise him. He looks important – a big shot director, perhaps. She’s hanging on his every word, desperate to get onto that A-list, giggling at his stories. Her fingertips brush the back of his hand; champagne touches, light and bubbly. And he’s buying the act. What does Mr Big Shot think? That she’s after him for his looks? I watch her take a dainty sip, a little Dutch courage so she can deal with the next bit. Enough alcohol and she’ll be able to blot it out: the sweaty whale blubber slimy against her skin, his bulk burying her deeper and deeper into the mattress.

God, I hate this place. I hate the falseness, hate the sycophancy, most of all I hate the desperation of the wannabes. But Kinclave loves it here, so I smile and endure. He’s always been blinded by the glitter and glam, gets a kick from rubbing shoulders with the Beautiful Ones.

My knife slices easily through the steak. Rare, only the briefest acquaintance with the flame. The butterflies in my stomach have stripped my appetite, but I chew and swallow and make like it’s the best steak ever. Kinclave is banging on about the old days, eyes misty with remembrance and too much wine. He always gets maudlin when he’s been drinking. His voice washes over me as he launches into another Russia story, an old favourite. I tune him out, tune into the burble of the restaurant. I catch snatches of conversation from all directions, odd words that merge into surreal sentences. Cutlery scratches against crockery and glasses tinkle. There’s classical music playing gently in the background, a string quartet. I clocked the couple at the table by the door straightaway. Always make sure your arse is covered. After all, isn’t that the MI6 way? I drink my wine and chew my steak and wait for him to make his move.

His mobile hums a tune and he pulls it out, checks the display. ‘Sorry, Mac,’ he says, ‘Duty calls.’

‘No problem,’ I say.

Kinclave gets up, folds his napkin neatly and places it on the chair. I can’t see it but I know the edges will run parallel to the edge of the chair. He moves towards the toilet with the phone pressed to his ear, keeps his back to me. He doesn’t want me to lip-read. The conversation is short, the news worse than he thought. He hides it well, though. His shoulders sag briefly before he catches himself. The back straightens, his shoulders fill the corners of his neat Savile Row suit again. He hangs up and makes a call, then returns to the table.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

‘Everything’s fine,’ he lies.

He prompts himself back into his story with a ‘Where was I? Ah yes …’ I switch off and concentrate on pretending to enjoy my steak, making the appropriate noises wherever necessary.

‘My God, Mac, some of the things we got up to, eh?’

‘You said it,’ I agree, not sure what I’m agreeing to and not particularly caring.

‘Were we ever that young?’

I give an appropriate smile, an appropriate shake of the head. ‘Where have the years gone, eh? It’s hard to believe I retire in less than six months. Only seems like yesterday I arrived at Century House for the first time.’

Kinclave picks up his glass, swirls the wine then takes a sip. ‘Don’t worry about that resignation nonsense,’ he tells me.

‘I wasn’t.’

‘That’s the spirit. Far as I’m concerned you’re far too valuable to lose. All that experience … no, it would be ridiculous.’ His voice slinks to a whisper. ‘I don’t care what the PM says. Anyway, I’m not having some jumped-up careerist telling me how to run my shop.’

I’m probably the only person in the world he’d confess these innermost feelings to. But you know what? I don’t care.

‘So, Mac, given any thought to what you’re going to do when you retire?’

‘I’ll probably take up fishing.’

‘That’ll be the day. Seriously, though, if you want to come back as an SBO, the offer’s there.’

That’s rich. SBOs oversee operational security in the Controllerates, sad cases who won’t let go. Far as I’m concerned they’re nothing more than glorified security guards.

‘The money’s good,’ Kinclave offers.

‘To be honest with you, since … well, since Sophia died I haven’t given it much thought.’

I deliver the line frostily, driving the conversation into a silence even Kinclave can’t circumnavigate. He’s saved by the waiter, who flounces over and scoops up our plates, asks if everything was to our satisfaction and would we like to see the dessert menu. Why not, Kinclave tells him, grabbing that lifeline and making the waiter’s day at the same time. The waiter is still beaming when he brings the menus. The couple by the door are on their coffees and brandies now. The girl is especially talented, innocent and elegant, acting the airhead. She’s positioned so she can see our reflection in the window. Very cute.

It was raining the day of the funeral, a freak grey day sandwiched in the middle of a week of gorgeous summer sun. We pulled up outside the crematorium under a battleship sky, the rain streaking the window of the Daimler. I took the front right corner of the coffin; the other three corners were taken by workers from the funeral house, serious men with serious faces and black suits. At Sophia’s request I was the only mourner. She wanted as small a funeral as possible. She hadn’t even wanted me there, but that was one argument I actually won. My memory of that day is fragmented; I did the whole thing on autopilot, my heart and soul numb. Pachelbel’s Canon played softly as we carried the coffin to the altar. A few empty words from the vicar, then a prayer and a hymn I can’t remember the title of. I was invited to say a few words, and this I did, but not aloud. I stood behind the coffin with my hands clasped in front of me, eyes locked on the small posy of wild flowers that had been placed on the lid. Lips tight and without uttering a sound, I told her all the things I’d miss about her, how much I loved her, said goodbye. Tender words for her alone. The vicar patted me gently on the shoulder and muttered some banal observation as I made my way back to the empty pew. Another hymn, another prayer, then the conveyer carried the coffin into the flames. Later that day I drove down to the coast and hired a boat, and under that same battleship sky I scattered her ashes into the choppy white waves.

‘… I can’t imagine what you’ve been through,’ Kinclave is saying.

I slip back into the here. He’s staring at me and shaking his head. His eyes are full of pity. I don’t need his pity.

‘I know things seem bleak,’ he says. ‘But you can get through this. The important thing to realise is that you’re not on your own.’

I’ve heard it all before. I didn’t believe it then; don’t believe it now.

He shakes his head and sighs. ‘You really should talk about it, you know. It can’t be doing you any good keeping everything bottled up …’ Another flash of pity. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’ve got it all arranged. I’ve found this little place in the country. Five star. Spa, swimming pool, massages. Some time out to get some perspective will do you the world of good, Mac. They’ll have you back to yourself in no time.’

‘You want to send me to a health farm?’

‘Only if you want to go.’

‘You think a week in the country drinking vegetable smoothies and eating lettuce is going to solve anything?’

‘Well, it can’t do any harm. Alternatively you could take some leave – you’re due a ton, go on a trip somewhere.’

‘That’s really going to cheer me up, Grant. Next you’ll be sending that twitchy psychiatrist to see me so we can have a good old chinwag about all the things I’m repressing.’

‘Mac, I’m only trying to help. You must be going through hell at the moment.’

‘Grant, I don’t need your help or anyone else’s. I don’t need a shrink and, before you say anything else, I don’t need a doctor, either. If you so much as mention Prozac, I’m out of here.’ A gentle, engaging smile. ‘Now, how about we forget this conversation ever took place and order dessert?’