Doctor Gavrilov (20 page)

K
ATIE sat by the window, reading. She looked weary, her head bowed over her book. In the evening light which filtered through the grimy glass her face looked pale and unlovely.

Tim stood in the doorway, watching her. She'd left the door ajar and he'd walked in without her knowing. The room was full of drying washing; the plates had not been cleared away after the evening meal, and there were children's toys scattered all over the floor. Tim felt uncomfortable, wondering what to tell her, and how to tell her. He knocked on the door and she looked up with a nervous start, relaxing when she saw that it was him.

She stood up and walked to the fridge. ‘Hello, Tim. Do you want a glass of wine?

‘If you're having one.'

She poured the wine out and handed him the glass. ‘How was Moscow, then, Tim? How did it go? Did you see Mitya?'

Tim circled the room, tensely. ‘No, I didn't see your husband, but I did meet his sister, Olga. She was quite helpful, in fact.'

‘Oh, yes, what was she like?' Katie's face became animated, seemed curious; she had told him she had never been to Russia, never met any of Dmitry's family. Tim produced the photograph of them in front of St Basil's. They stood close together; Olga, tall and smiling, had her head on one side, grinning at the camera.

Tim said, ‘She was great. I liked her a lot.'

‘And her children?'

‘They were in the country. Look, Katie, she said…' He paused, as if uncertain how to put this: ‘She said she hadn't heard from Mitya at all and she was very surprised to hear he was in Russia.'

Katie didn't react to this at first; she sat on the sofa and looked at him blankly. ‘But you tried to contact him?'

‘Yes, but the truth is, Katie, it's rather odd. I couldn't find anyone who knew where he was… I rang the number you gave me but it wasn't anywhere… it seemed to be just a message service. I left various messages and so did his sister but no-one ever called back.'

‘I see.'

‘Are you worried?'

‘Worried? No, not really… He's called me, twice. He didn't talk for long, its expensive… but he said everything was going well.'

Tim sat down opposite Katie and pulled the chair in closer to her. ‘Katie, his sister phoned several of his friends and they said they hadn't heard from him. I also asked about this meeting you mentioned and it seems something like that exists but no-one had heard about your husband having anything to do with it…'

Katie was defensive. ‘Look, I didn't want you to make a big thing out of it…'

‘I'm sorry, I didn't want to worry you… I'm just telling you why I couldn't contact him.'

Katie abruptly turned away from him. ‘Look, it's not important. Thanks for trying, Tim, anyway. I expect he'll call me later.'

She clearly expected him to go; Tim gulped down the wine. He said, ‘Well, let me know if you need anything. I'll let you know when my report's going out.'

Katie sat up in the chair, biting her fingernails, waiting for Dmitry to ring as he had promised. Tiredness came over her in waves, and her body ached as if she had flu, her neck was stiff, and her eyes felt hot and dry as if she had a fever. She was angry that he should call late, depriving her of sleep. It was all very well for him, she thought, he could come and go as he pleased, not telling her anything, while she was stuck here with the mindless boredom of nappies and housework and walking back and forth from school; in fact she doubted if she'd had more than an hour on her own since Sasha was born.

The phone rang and she answered at once. It was Jenny, asking if she and Anna wanted to go over for tea after school the next day.

‘Yes, that might be nice… but I'm sorry, I can't talk now, I'm expecting an urgent phone call.'

Jenny apologised and hung up at once; Katie hoped she'd not been rude. She thought that Tim had probably got things wrong, but all the same, she was anxious, she needed the reassurance of the expected phone call, and was afraid that if the line was engaged he wouldn't call back. As time went by, and he didn't phone, she couldn't help worrying; it must be midnight in Moscow by now. She paced up and down, and when at half past nine the phone rang Katie snatched it up; Dmitry's voice came over clearly, and relief flooded through her so strongly that she had to sit down. He asked, matter-of-fact, ‘How are you? Are the children in bed?'

‘I'm all right. We're all fine. Where are you?'

There was the slightest pause, and then he said. ‘Where I said I'd be.'

Katie said, ‘But you're not in Moscow.'

‘No, I'm not in Moscow, at the moment… what is this?'

‘Well, where are you? Why can't anyone get hold of you?'

‘I'm sorry… I am calling you now. You sound upset. Is anything the matter?'

‘No, but it could be the matter. Supposing I needed you urgently and I couldn't get hold of you? I want to know exactly where you are and what you're doing. Nobody seems to be able to get in touch with you. Tim said –'

Suddenly the line went dead.

Katie stood, staring at the phone. She put the receiver down and sat, heavily, on the sofa. She thought that it must have been the Russian phone lines and expected him to ring back, so she stayed there, waiting; after a few minutes she could stand it no longer so she got up and began to walk around the room; then she went and boiled the kettle; made some tea; sat and drank it. By this time she knew that he was not calling back. She thought, have I offended him? Should I have been less angry? Was it because I mentioned Tim? Are the lines so bad that he can't get another one?

She went up to bed but knew she would never sleep. She felt sure that something was wrong. She felt guilty now that she had given Tim those numbers in Moscow; she realised that he might have set something in motion through his inquiries that might cause difficulties for Dmitry. He had asked her to be cautious with Tim and she had thought only of the fact that he might be jealous, had disregarded the fact that Tim might be dangerously inquisitive. What did she know of the pressures that might be put on someone in Dmitry's position? She had been stupidly, thoughtlessly naive.

All kinds of thoughts went through her mind; that the authorities might put pressure on Dmitry to stay in Russia, that he might not find it so easy to be back there. She felt she must speak to him that very moment, that she must tell him that she loved him and wanted him to come back quickly, that she was afraid of what might happen to them. She tossed and turned in the crumpled bed, still hoping that the phone would ring again, yet somehow knowing that it wouldn't.

Tim woke from a deep sleep to the sound of the phone. He reached out his arm, picked it up, glanced at the digital display on the clock radio and saw that it was nearly three o'clock. A quiet, distant voice said, ‘This is Mitya Gavrilov. Please can you go upstairs and get Katie down to talk to me? I'm sorry to bother you, but I can't get through to her and it's urgent.'

Tim said, ‘Yes, hold on.' He put the receiver down and put on his dressing gown over his pyjamas. He assumed that Katie's phone must be out of order, or that one of the children had left it off the hook, or perhaps, that Katie had rowed with him and taken the receiver off herself. As he went upstairs a thought occurred to him; he had a recording device attached to the phone which he had on occasion used for interviews. He had bought it cheaply in the Tottenham Court Road. Its use in these circumstances was, strictly speaking, illegal, but he switched it on, hid it away under the bed, and went up to knock on Katie's door.

After a few moments she came down and opened the door, white-faced.

‘What's happened?'

‘It's all right, it's just your husband on the phone.'

She looked at him for a moment with a strange expression on her face, then she went on past him down the stairs. He followed her, closed the front door of the flat, and showed her where the phone was. He could see her in his bedroom, her back towards him, her hair falling forward over her face, her whole bearing that of someone trying to talk in privacy. He went into the kitchen to wait and put on the kettle. He could hear her, talking quietly, angry, but controlled. The noise of the kettle starting to heat up obscured her voice. Finally she hung up. She came to the doorway. She said, ‘Thanks… I must go back to bed.'

Tim stood in the doorway. ‘Is anything the matter?'

She made a movement to duck past him but he didn't give way. ‘Nothing… nothing… he just couldn't get through. He was worried… Perhaps our phone is out of order…'

‘I could try your phone for you now if you want to test it…'

‘Oh, the morning will do. I'm sorry, Tim… I'm half asleep.'

‘Are you upset?'

‘No… yes… a little… I just miss him.'

Tim would have liked to have touched her, to have put his arm around her, comforted her, but he couldn't; it was the wrong moment. He asked, ‘Are you sure I can't offer you anything?' and she said, ‘No, I have to go, Sasha might wake up.' He said, ‘Shall I call by in the morning?' and she nodded. He followed her to the door. She hesitated for the tiniest moment; then she said, ‘Thanks, Tim,' and went upstairs.

Tim went back into his room, rewound the tape, and listened.

He heard Gavrilov's voice, quiet, subdued, as if he didn't want to be heard, and dim noises in the background. ‘Katie, please, I have to tell you something. This is very important. I'll be back next week. If I phone you, please don't ask me anything. Just talk to me normally, don't ask me any questions. It's very important, I have to ask you to trust me; I will explain it to you later; do you understand?'

Then Katie, puzzled, shaken, ‘Mitya, what is this, I don't have the slightest idea what you are talking about.'

‘It doesn't matter, I am just asking you, I am appealing to you, to do what I ask. I don't want to have to explain, to justify myself, anything, just now. I want you to trust me. Will you do this for me, Katie?'

‘I don't understand what it is that I'm agreeing to.'

Gavrilov's voice sounded as if he were trying to explain to an awkward child. ‘I am in a rather awkward situation… I will explain when I come back. I will ring you, and just talk to me, about ordinary things, the children, please. And for God's sake don't tell this to Tim.' His voice changed now; it became softer, more intimate. ‘I have to go now. I think about you all the time, Katie. I wish I was with you. I want to touch you… I want to fuck you, actually. Do you miss me too?'

And Katie's voice, suddenly softer, too, ‘Yes, of course… I wish you were home, I'm worried, I don't understand… but please, ring me… Please take care.'

‘There's nothing to worry about. If you like I'll ring you tomorrow night.'

‘Yes, please do.'

‘By-ee.'

‘Mitya…' But he'd hung up; the tape ran silent. Tim stopped it, wound it back, sat there, thinking. His chief emotion was one of anger; that Gavrilov should manipulate Katie's emotions in that way. Also, he had heard that sudden intimacy; ‘I want to fuck you, actually. Do you miss me too?' ‘Yes, of course…' It made him feel suddenly isolated, shut out. He thought that perhaps he had under-estimated the strength of their relationship, hadn't seen the clues because he hadn't wanted to. He slid the tape-recorder back on the floor under the bed, took off his shoes, and lay down. Katie wasn't likely to tell him much, now, he could see that. Perhaps if he were to tell her what Petrovsky had said, prove that Dmitry had lied to her…

He reached out for his notebook. As he pulled it out of the drawer, a piece of paper came with it, a fragment of Ingrid's last essay.

He read: Basilius Valentinus, a Benedictine monk and alchemist from Thuringia, used a mixture of antimony and mercury to create the Red Elixir.

The Red Elixir. Red Mercury, or mercury antimony oxide. Tim stared at the piece of paper in complete amazement.