Amsterdam (12 page)

“It would have been Friday. What’s the …?”

“The man you saw—no, wait. What time were you on this Allen Crags?”

“About one, I’d say.”

“Listen. The guy you saw attacking this woman, and you decided not to help her—it was the Lakeland rapist.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Don’t you ever read the papers? He’s attacked eight women in the last year, mostly hikers. As it happened, this one got away.”

“That’s a relief.”

“No, it isn’t. He attacked someone two days ago. They arrested him yesterday.”

“Well, that’s all right, then.”

“No, it isn’t all right. You didn’t want to help this woman. Fine. But if you’d’ve gone to the police afterward, this other woman wouldn’t have copped it.”

There was a brief pause as Clive took this in, or gathered himself. Now he was fully awake and his voice had hardened.

He said, “That doesn’t follow, but never mind. Why are you raising your voice, Vernon? Is this one of your manic days? What exactly do you want?”

“I want you to go to the police now and tell them what you saw.”

“Out of the question.”

“You could identify this man.”

“I’m in the final stages of finishing a symphony that—”

“No, you’re not, dammit. You’re in bed.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“This is outrageous. Go to the police, Clive. It’s your moral duty.”

An audible intake of breath, another pause as though for reconsideration, then, “You’re telling me my moral duty? You? Of all people?”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning these photographs. Meaning crapping on Molly’s grave—”

The excremental reference to a nonexistent burial place marked that point in a dispute when a corner is turned and all restraints are off. Vernon cut in. “You know nothing, Clive. You live a privileged life and you know fuck-all about anything.”

“—meaning hounding a man from office. Meaning gutter journalism. How can you live with yourself?”

“You can bluster all you want. You’re losing your grip. If you won’t go to the police, I’ll phone them myself and tell them what you saw. Accessory to an attempted rape—”

“Have you gone mad? How dare you threaten me!”

“There are certain things more important than symphonies. They’re called people.”

“And are these people as important as circulation figures, Vernon?”

“Go to the police.”

“Fuck off.”

“No. You fuck off.”

The door of Vernon’s office opened suddenly and Jean was there, writhing with anxiety. “I’m sorry to interrupt a private conversation, Mr. Halliday,” she said. “But I think you’d better turn on the television. Mrs. Julian Garmony is giving a press conference. Channel One.”

The party managers thought long and hard about the matter and made some reasonable decisions. One was to allow cameras into a well-known children’s hospital that morning to film Mrs. Garmony emerging from the operating theater, tired but happy, after performing open-heart surgery on a nine-year-old black girl called Candy. The surgeon was also filmed on her rounds, followed by respectful nurses and registrars and hugged
by children who clearly adored her. Then, captured briefly in the hospital car park, was a tearful encounter between Mrs. Garmony and the little girl’s grateful parents. These were the first images Vernon saw after he had slammed down the phone, searched in vain for the remote control among the papers on his desk, and bounded across to the monitor mounted high in a corner of his office. While the sobbing father heaped half a dozen pineapples into the arms of the surgeon, a voice-over explained that one could rise so high in the medical hierarchy that it became inappropriate to be addressed as Doctor. It was Mrs. Garmony to you.

Vernon, whose heart was still thudding from the row, retreated to his desk to watch while Jean tiptoed away, closing the door quietly behind her. Now we were in Wiltshire, at some elevated point, gazing down at a little tree-lined stream threading its way between the bald and undulating hills. A cozy farmhouse nestled by the trees, and as the commentary sketched in the familiar background to the Garmony affair, the camera began a long, slow zoom that ended on a sheep tending its newborn lamb on the front lawn, close to the shrubbery, right by the front door. It was another party decision to send the Garmonys and their two grown-up children, Annabel and Ned, to their country home for a long weekend as soon as Rose was finished at the hospital. Vernon saw them now as a family group, looking toward the camera over a five-barred gate, dressed in
woolies and oilcloth coats and accompanied by their sheepdog, Milly, and the family cat, a British shorthair by the name of Brian, which Annabel lovingly cradled. It was a photo call, but the foreign secretary was uncharacteristically hanging back, looking, well, sheepish, even lambish, for his wife was the center of this event. Vernon knew that Garmony was sunk, but he could not help but nod in knowing tribute to the presentational skills, the sheer professionalism of it all.

The commentary faded and there was actual sound, the snap and whir of motor-driven still cameras and various aggrieved voices out of shot. It was clear from the tilt and wobble of the frame that a degree of jostling was going on. Vernon had a glimpse of the sky, then the cameraman’s feet and orange tape. The whole circus must be there, confined behind a line. The picture found Mrs. Garmony at last and steadied itself as she cleared her throat and prepared to make her statement. There was something in her hand, but she was not going to read from it because she was confident enough to speak without notes. She paused to ensure she had everyone’s full attention, then began with a little history of her marriage, from the days when she was at the Guildhall, dreaming of a career as a concert pianist, and Julian was an impoverished and high-spirited law student. Those were the days of hard work and making do, the one-room flat in South London, the birth of Annabel, her own late decision to study medicine
and Julian’s unflinching support, the proud purchase of their first house at the less popular end of Fulham, the birth of Ned, Julian’s growing success at the bar, her first internship, and so on. Her voice was relaxed, even intimate, and derived its authority not so much from class or status as a cabinet minister’s wife as from her own professional eminence. She spoke of her pride in Julian’s career, the delight they had taken in their children, how they had shared in each other’s triumphs and setbacks and how they had always valued fun, discipline, and above all, honesty.

She paused and smiled, as though to herself. Right at the beginning, she said, Julian told her something about himself, something rather startling, even a little shocking. But it was nothing that their love could not absorb, and over the years it had endeared itself to her and she had come to regard it with respect, as an inseparable part of her husband’s individuality. Their trust in each other had been absolute. It hadn’t entirely been a secret either, this curious thing about Julian, because a friend of the family, Molly Lane, who died recently, once took some pictures, rather in a spirit of celebration. Mrs. Garmony was lifting up a white cardboard folder, and as she did so Annabel kissed her father on the cheek, and Ned, who was now seen to be wearing a nose stud, leaned across and put a hand on his father’s arm.

“Oh God,” Vernon croaked. “It’s a spoiler.”

She pulled the photographs clear and held up the first for all to see. It was the catwalk pose, it was Vernon’s front page. The camera wobbled as it zoomed in, and there was shouting and pushing behind the line. Mrs. Garmony waited for the clamor to subside. When it had, she said calmly that she knew that a newspaper with a political agenda of its own intended to publish this photograph and others tomorrow in the expectation of driving her husband from office. She had only this to say: the newspaper would not succeed, because love was a greater force than spite.

The line had broken and the hacks were surging forward. Behind the five-barred gate the children had linked arms with their father while their mother stood firm against the rabble, unfazed by the microphones shoved into her face. Vernon was out of his chair. No, Mrs. Garmony was saying, and she was glad to be able to put the record straight and make it clear that there was absolutely no foundation to the rumor. Molly Lane was simply a family friend, and the Garmonys would always remember her fondly. Vernon was on his way across his office to turn the thing off when the surgeon was asked whether she had any particular message for the editor of the
Judge
. Yes, she said, she did, and she looked at him, and he froze in front of the television.

“Mr. Halliday, you have the mentality of a blackmailer, and the moral stature of a
flea
.”

Vernon gasped in pained admiration, for he knew a
soundbite when he heard one. The question was a plant, the line was scripted. What consummate artistry!

She was about to say more, but he managed to lift a hand and switch off the set.

Around five o’clock that afternoon, it occurred to the many newspaper editors who had bid for Molly’s photographs that the trouble with Vernon’s paper was that it was out of step with changing times. As a leader in one broadsheet put it to its readers on Friday morning, “It seems to have escaped the attention of the editor of the
Judge
that the decade we live in now is not like the one before. Then, self-advancement was the watchword, while greed and hypocrisy were the rank realities. Now we live in a more reasonable, compassionate, and tolerant age in which the private and harmless preferences of individuals, however public they may be, remain their own business. Where there is no discernible issue of public interest, the old-fashioned arts of the blackmailer and self-righteous whistle-blower have no place, and while this paper does not wish to impugn
the moral sensitivities of the common flea, it cannot but endorse the remarks made yesterday by …” Etc.

Front-page headlines divided more or less equally between “blackmailer” and “flea,” and most made use of a photograph of Vernon taken at a Press Association banquet looking somewhat squiffy in a crumpled dinner jacket. On Friday afternoon, two thousand members of the Transvestite Pink Alliance marched on Judge House in their high heels, holding aloft copies of the disgraced front page and chanting in derisive falsetto. About the same time, the parliamentary party seized the moment and passed an overwhelming vote of confidence in the foreign secretary. The prime minister suddenly felt emboldened to speak up for his old friend. A broad consensus emerged over the weekend that the
Judge
had gone too far and was a disgusting newspaper, that Julian Garmony was a decent fellow, and that Vernon Halliday (“the Flea”) was despicable and his head was urgently needed on a plate. In the Sundays, the lifestyle sections portrayed “the new supportive wife” who had her own career
and
fought her husband’s corner. The editorials concentrated on the few remaining neglected aspects of Mrs. Garmony’s speech, including “love is greater than spite.” On the
Judge
itself, the senior staff were glad their reservations had been minuted, and it was felt by most journalists that Grant McDonald pointed the way when he was heard to say in the canteen that once his misgivings
were not listened to, he did his best to be loyal. By Monday they had all remembered their misgivings and how they had all tried to be loyal.

The matter was rather more complex for the
Judge’s
board of directors, which met in emergency session on Monday afternoon. In fact, it was rather trying. How could they sack an editor to whom they had given a unanimous vote of support last Wednesday?

Finally, after two hours of meandering and backtracking, George Lane had a good idea.

“Look, there was nothing wrong in purchasing those photographs. Actually, I can tell you this, I heard he got a jolly good deal. No, Halliday’s mistake was in not pulling his front page the moment he saw Rose Garmony’s press conference. He had plenty of time to turn it around. He wasn’t going out with it till the late edition. He was quite wrong to have gone ahead. On Friday the paper was made to look ridiculous. He should have seen which way the wind was blowing and got out. If you’re asking me, it was a serious failure of editorial judgment.”

The following day the editor presided over a subdued meeting with his senior staff. Tony Montano sat to one side, a silent observer.

“It’s time we ran more regular columns. They’re cheap, and everyone else is doing them. You know, we hire someone of low to medium intelligence, possibly female, to write about, well, nothing much. You’ve seen the sort of thing. Goes to a party and can’t remember someone’s name. Twelve hundred words.”

“Sort of navel gazing,” Jeremy Ball suggested.

“Not quite. Gazing is too intellectual. More like navel
chat
.”

“Can’t work her video recorder. Is my bum too big?” Lettice supplied helpfully.

“That’s good. Keep ’em coming.” The editor wiggled and paddled his fingers in the air to draw out their ideas.

“Er, buying a guinea pig.”

“His hangover.”

“Her first gray pubic hair.”

“Always gets the supermarket trolley with the wobbly wheel.”

“Excellent. I like it. Harvey? Grant?”

“Um, always losing Biros. Where do they go?”

“Ehm, canna keep his tongue out of the wee hole in his tooth.”

“Brilliant,” Frank said. “Thank you, everyone. We’ll continue this tomorrow.”

There were moments in the early morning, after the mild excitement of dawn, with London already heading noisily for work and his creative turmoil finally smothered by exhaustion, when Clive stood from the piano and shuffled to the doorway to turn out the studio lights and looked back at the rich, the beautiful chaos that surrounded his toils, and had once more a passing thought, the minuscule fragment of a suspicion that he would not have shared with a single person in the world, would not even have committed to his journal, and whose key word he shaped in his mind only with reluctance; the thought was, quite simply, that it might not be going too far to say that he was … a genius. A genius. Though he sounded it guiltily on his inner ear, he would not let the word reach his lips. He was not a vain man. A genius. It was a term that had suffered from inflationary overuse, but surely there was a certain level of achievement, a gold standard, that was nonnegotiable, beyond mere opinion. There hadn’t
been many. Among his countrymen, Shakespeare was a genius, of course, and Darwin and Newton, he had heard it said. Purcell, almost. Britten, less so, though within range. But there had been no Beethovens here.