Catalyst (32 page)

Tom gasped out loud and leant against the door jamb for support.

“Tom, Tom!”

He heard Andrew speaking a long way off.

“Mr Brown, are you alright?”

“Could you… errr… repeat that, Mandy, please,” he said. “Are you absolutely sure you got the name right?”

Mandy looked again at her pad, screwing up her eyes as if this would give her answer more credibility. She said the name slowly.

“John… Alexander… Deverall.”

“Christ!” said Tom.

“Is that significant?” asked Andrew, then, “Silly question; it obviously is.”

“If it really is him, then he was my best friend and he was killed in action three years ago.”

Mandy gave a little squeal, as if she'd just been told a particularly scary ghost story. Andrew offered an obvious explanation.

“Then he must be just
saying
he's this guy. That's more likely than someone coming back from the dead, after all.”

Tom was staring into space.

“Alma Deverall,” he said aloud to himself. “Of course. I just didn't make the connection!”

Andrew and Mandy said nothing, waiting for him to elaborate.

“No,” he said. “It
is
him, definitely. There must have been some mistake over his death. Well, obviously… but why hasn't he been in touch?” He was talking to himself again.

“Best find out the details, Tom. There might be some really simple explanation. Memory loss or something. You know, the trauma of the trial bringing everything back. No point in guessing before you know a bit more.”

“Christ,” said Tom again. “I have to go.”

“You were just leaving anyway – remember?” said Andrew, trying to make light of it.

Tom was pulling his mobile with clumsy haste from the pocket of his trousers. He switched it on as he walked from the room, totally swamped by what he had heard and what he was thinking, and not saying another word to the two people behind him. He had several messages, mostly from Grace. But it was one from Mags, received in the last few minutes, that he opened.

‘Jad alive!' it said. ‘Prob know already. Get in touch asap.'

He set off to walk the mile to his apartment to retrieve his car from the underground garage, responding to Mags as he went.

‘On my way home. Can't believe it.'

He got as far as the corner of Abingdon and Great Peter Street, where, thinking better of it, he hailed a taxi and slumped into the back seat, eyes wide, mind reeling.

Brigadier Barry Henshaw carefully filled four cups from the large teapot shaped like an army tank, which had been presented to him when he had, officially anyway, retired from his last command for a quiet life in the garden. Never one for embracing deviations from tradition, his pouring was necessarily slow as the liquid passed through a small, delicate tea strainer, a utensil the like of which Vicky Barrowclough had never seen outside his office. She stood now and passed the filled cups to the other two people sitting around the Brigadier's desk – Peter Drake and Clive Granville. They all settled in their seats as the ceremony ended with the filling of the fourth cup.

“Well,” said the Head of G2 Pages, “job done. Jolly good work, everyone. To bring you right up to date,” he continued, “you need to know that Deverall will be isolated in Pentonville, ostensibly for his own protection, but also because during his period of remand prior to the trial, he was diagnosed with a rare wasting illness for which there is no known cure. He is, in effect, terminally ill and will die within the next two to three years.”

The people in front of him nodded and sipped their tea.

“It's all been very unfortunate but, fingers crossed, no harm done.”

He reached over the desk holding out a rectangular plate shaped like a landing craft – part of the same set – to offer a choice of Rich Tea or Custard Creams.

Tom picked up a newspaper from a vendor on Vauxhall Bridge Road after alighting from the taxi. It was an early edition and featured the arrival of the prisoner at the Old Bailey, with more pictures of the crowds lining the streets. He had the feeling he was looking back on history; that somehow the world had changed since this had been printed, and what he was holding were images of events that did not matter any more.

He was so overwhelmed and distracted by the news of his friend's reappearance that he initially doubted his ability to drive home. However, the prospect of the Friday afternoon scramble on the underground and then the train made him steel himself to try. He pulled out of the garage into Milton Street, then onto the main road which took him across the river, and past the Brit Oval to join the A3 for the long stretch home.

As he pulled into the drive at Etherington Place, he could remember nothing of the journey he had just made and was surprised to note that it had taken him less than fifty minutes. He came back to earth long enough to wonder how many times he had been caught on camera on the way. He knew it was impossible to achieve this time within the speed limits along the route. It also occurred to him that he had not thought to turn on the radio.

Mags came out to meet him, holding a small wad of printed sheets. They kissed briefly – on the lips – and Mags waved the papers.

“Just printed these off,” she said. “E-mail from Tony Dobson; Lorimar's speech. Well, Jad's speech.”

There were tears in her eyes.

“It's really true, then,” said Tom, putting his arm around her, “he's alive?” His own voice broke a little as he asked the question.

“Yes. It had to be him, didn't it? We saw him yesterday.”

“Why would he do it and not tell us?”

Mags said what they were both thinking as they sat together on the sofa in the front sitting room, each holding a glass of wine. “When I think of us at his funeral. He must have known how we'd feel, how upset – how
devastated
– we'd be.”

“There must have been a really good reason,” said Tom. “I mean, there had to be a lot of people involved, didn't there? You can't fake that sort of death on your own.”

“But what about Alma? Unless she knew, of course. Perhaps we were the only ones there that didn't know. But she couldn't have done; remember how she was at the funeral. She must have thought he was dead, too. How could Jad do that to his own mother?” She was getting angry and upset.

“We'll have to wait and see, Mags. One thing I do know – Jad was – is – a kind and considerate person. Whatever the reason, it must have been a good one. Most likely out of his hands; a decision not of his taking.”

They were silent for a while.

“You're right,” said Mags, eventually. “Jad wouldn't have done anything to hurt us if he could have avoided it. What was I thinking?”

Her watery eyes eventually gave way to the tears behind them. They were neither tears of joy nor sorrow, just tears. An emotional jolt that had to be recognised somehow; crying seemed appropriate. Tom put down his drink and wrapped both his arms around her, holding her to him. They sat in silence like that for a few minutes.

“I'll say one thing for Jad,” said Tom, at last. “He's lost none of his magic. He's only been alive again for a few hours and he's managed to get me the biggest cuddle I've had for ages.”

Mags laughed through her tears.

“Aye to that,” she said, leaning more closely against him.

They sat together like that for several more minutes, rocking gently back and forth, not wanting to move and lost in their separate memories.

The idyllic interlude was shattered by the crashing entry of their son. Jack Tomlinson-Brown, one month off his seventeenth birthday, was already as tall as Tom. Slim and athletic, with classical good looks, he was a magnet for the attention of every girl in Bishop Adcock sixth form college, as well as those spread through all five years of the high school. He seemed to possess none of his parents' and sister's determination and intensity, and his enduring good humour was reflected in an ever-smiling face and an unswerving commitment to make a joke out of just about everything.

“Hey, did you see Uncle Jad has risen from the grave?”

He suddenly noticed their position together on the sofa.

“What's this, then? Mixed Sumo wrestling? My money's on the old man. You'll never get out of that one, Mum.”

Neither of them made to move, but Tom could feel Mags shaking with silent laughter in his arms. He smiled across at Jack.

“Listen, if I give you some money, will you go to the movies?”

“Not when there's wrestling on the sofa. No way. Tell you what I will do, though, I'll top up your glasses while you work out how you're going to separate yourselves from each other.”

“We're just fine,” said Mags, still without moving, “but we'll have the top-up.”

Jack went out to get the wine from the fridge, taking his time to return. Mags and Tom straightened up and looked into each others eyes.

“God, but you're beautiful,” said Tom, his voice breaking slightly again. “Why can't we always be like this?”

“Don't know,” Mags gulped out the words. “But I do know I'm only ever happy when we are.”

They kissed gently but passionately, and when they stopped, Tom held her away from him as if to study her.

“God, but you're beautiful,” he said.

“You just said that,” she gave a happy, tearful laugh.

“I know, but it's the truest thing I can think of right now; apart from the fact that I do love you so much, Mags.” He got suddenly serious. “You must know, when we argue, when I stomp off, or you stomp off – not that you ever do, of course –” he added hurriedly, making her laugh again “– I never stop loving you, not ever, not for a fraction of a second. You do know that, don't you?”

Mags smiled back at him.

“Of course I do, darling. It's you and me forever. That's what it is. That's what I want.”

They were leaning together to kiss again when Jack, holding the wine bottle, spoke from the doorway.

“Would you mind pouring this yourself; I'm just going upstairs to puke.”

“How long have you been standing there?” demanded Mags.

“Long enough,” he said. “Oh, look,” he added in mock surprise. “I've brought another glass in with the wine. Whatever was I thinking of.”

“Let's all drink a toast,” said Mags. “To a no-longer-absent friend.”

Jack topped up their glasses and filled his own, raising it for the toast.

“A no-longer-absent friend,” they said together.

Katey burst into the room.

“Hey, where's mine?”

“I think I only met him once or twice,” said Katey, “just after you left the Forces. I don't have a clear picture of him at all.”

What they called the ‘family lounge' at the rear of the property was twelve metres square – the largest room in the house by a long way – and on two levels. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows along the full length of the room, the lush carpet was just a few inches above the ground outside. On this lower level overlooking the large pond and wildlife area was a long coffee table with a four-seater sofa behind it and a huge armchair at either end. This was their favourite place to sit, and where the four of them had naturally gravitated after dinner – a rare event now for the widely diverse group they had become.