Faithless (20 page)

             
"Who is this guy?" said Karen. "He's some kind of big cheese."

             
"Foreign Ministry," said John. "At least."

             
He put his arm around Karen's shoulders. Yelena stood behind them standing silently. John stole a glance over his shoulder at her. She looked wistfully back at him. He smiled. 

             
"I'm going to ask your mother to come round. Normally I would go to her but time is short," said Bebur. He had been rapidly interrogating the receptionist. He said, "Your father has been taken to the First City Hospital on Leninsky Prospekt by Gorky Park. When your mother arrives I will drive you there."

             
His mother came down looking flustered. Her eyes were red.

             
"Oh John," she cried, wrapping her arms round him. "I didn't know where they'd taken him. He woke me in the night saying he had a pain in his chest so I rang the reception. The ambulance was here very quickly. He lost consciousness as they were taking him out but they were very kind, even though I couldn't understand them."

             
"I'm so sorry, ma. I should have been here. I could have talked to them."

             
"It's not your fault son."

             
"Please, Mrs Gilroy," said Bebur. "Allow me to take you to the hospital."

             
His mother took in Bebur in his dark suit and polished shoes with his air of command. She seemed impressed. She said, "Thank you. Are you a friend of John's?"

             
"I am I hope. Please, my car is outside."

             
They all walked quickly out to the car, the doormen holding the door open for them with an air of respect that was wholly due to Bebur. "I will hurry," said Bebur. He sat in the front with Yelena. John, Karen and his mother were in the back seat.

             
"Is that his girlfriend?" asked his mother about Yelena.

             
"No, it's John's," said Karen. "Or she'd like to be."

             
"What? She's not is she John? What about Karen?"

             
"Karen's being silly, of course she isn't. She's my student mentor and a friend of Bebur's."

They arrived at the First City Hospital and again Bebur simply parked outside the front door. A flash of his identity card silenced doormen and receptionists. He rapidly found out where William was. One of the senior doctors appeared and began to act as guide and interlocutor, fawning around Bebur.

             
Bebur spoke to John as they walked along the shiny corridors. "This is one of the best hospitals. You are lucky. When Lenin set up our health system it was the wonder of the world - free health care for everyone. For the first time ordinary people didn't have to choose between food and medicine. But unfortunately with Stalin's push for industrial development and military superiority, our health system slipped behind. I am sorry to say."

             
Bebur was not voicing the Soviet line that everything was perfect. It seemed to imply a friendliness and trust. "Sometimes, there is not even hot water at some provincial hospitals."             

             
They arrived at the cardiac ward. Lines of beds occupied both sides of the rooms. Doctors and nurses busied themselves talking, examining and writing.

             
John took his mother's hand. "He'll be ok."

             
Bebur nodded at William's doctor and said, "I want to see the physician in charge. Please."

             
The doctor scurried off towards a grey haired man.

             
John's mother saw her husband in one of the beds and with a cry ran off towards him. Karen went with her. John stayed back with Bebur and Yelena to see what the physician in charge would say.

             
The grey haired doctor in a white coat with a clipboard came towards them with a smile. "Good day Comrade Gelashvili," he said and shook his hand. Their guide had told him who Bebur was. "And hello to you too," he said to John and shook his hand. "And to you too Comrade," he said to Yelena but didn't shake her hand.

             
"How is he?" asked John in Russian. The doctor smiled again, "He will be fine. He has had a minor heart attack. After a short recuperation he should be fit to go home."

             
"Good," nodded John. "Thank you."

             
Bebur said, "Yes, thank you doctor but this ward is not good enough for our guest."

             
The doctor frowned. "I'm sorry?"

             
"I would like him to have a private room. If that is not too much of a problem." Bebur reached inside his jacket and, as if he were much practised, took out several large denomination rouble notes and passed them to the doctor. The doctor took the money discreetly, if this was a well oiled procedure. "Of course," he said, "I will arrange it straight away." He walked off and they went over to where his mother was sitting by William's bed, holding his hand.

             
John said, "The doctor says you're going to be fine."

             
William was whey faced but he managed a crooked smile. "It must hae been that beer you recommended."

             
"Aye maybe," said John.

             
Bebur turned to John and said, "I must leave now. I have to go to work. But if there are any difficulties with papers and bureaucracy in getting your father home safely to Scotland, please ring me. I will arrange everything."

             
John said, "I don't know how to thank you. I'll pay you back."

             
Bebur laughed. "I  wanted to help you. I know in the West you do not think highly of the Soviet Union but we do have some compassion."

             
John shook his head. "I never doubted it. You've been very kind."

             
"But as I said, I must leave. I will take Yelena."

             
Yelena took her chance to talk to John while Karen was distracted at the bedside talking to William. "I hope you are ok John. I hope your father is well."

             
He smiled. "He will be. Thanks again for everything you did."

             
She blushed. "I would have done it for anyone."

             
"But thanks for doing it for me," he leaned in and gave her a fraternal kiss. She stepped back and put her hand up to her cheek. Her eyes were moist.

             
"Come Yelena," said Bebur.

             
"I'll see you soon," said John

             
Karen turned and looked as they departed. "Bye Yelena," she said but Yelena didn't turn back.

             
John rolled his eyes. "No need to be bitchy. She really helped us."

             
"Yes, lover boy. I could see the stars in her eyes from here."

             
"I don't think it's like that."

             
"Isn't it?"

             
He went and sat down at one of the three chairs beside William's bed. His mother said, "What a kind man."

             
"Yes," nodded John. "Bebur's ok."             

1974: Durham:
In his final year, John was living in digs on Claypath. Frankton had graduated with a First in Mathematics and was now doing his PhD. John hadn't done much about getting a job and was now entertaining the idea of doing postgraduate study if only to prolong the student life. Karen was a teacher, working at a Secondary School in Bishop Auckland which she was finding difficult.

One Saturday morning an letter arrived. It was expensive stationary with the address neatly typed. He opened it and saw a thick, single sheet of paper with a Ministry of Defence crest and an address at Admiralty Arch. It asked John whether he wou
ld be interested in a job with them and if so could he reply by return. They would send him a rail warrant to pay for his travel to London. It was signed by a Mr A Clayton in an illegible squiggle, only decipherable by referring to the typed name below it.

             
He showed Frankton the letter. Frankton was eating toast. Peering over John's shoulder through his thick spectacles, he said, "Looks dodgy. Very hush-hush."

             
"Yeah, that's what I thought. I don't think I'll reply."

             
Frankton said, "Sounds like a job offer from the Secret Police."

             
John read the letter again.

             
"You're not really thinking about it are you? Just burn it."

             
"I need a job mate."

             
"You don't need that kind of a job - spying on the workers to help the rich get richer by screwing them down. Keeping us all in order. I thought better of you than that," said Frankton.

             
"I've got no money Billy. Karen wants to get married. She wants kids."

             
"Sell out."

             
"It's what normal people want."

             
"Normal people get fucked over by the bankers and their Conservative friends. Don't go and work for them."

A week later, another letter arrived as mysterious as the first also signed by Mr A Clayton although the squiggle was noticeably different from that on the first letter. John exchanged the rail warrant for a train ticket and caught the express train to London from Durham, stopping only at York, Leeds, Peterborough and London King's Cross. From King's Cross with its air of menace, cheap fast food stores and ragged looking whores he caught the Tube - going via the Northern Line to Charing Cross station and there via a short walk across the bottom of Trafalgar Square to Spring Gardens - a gloomy narrow side street to the left of Admiralty Arch with its Portland stone facing and Latin inscription to a dead monarch.

There was a security guard who examined his letter with its instructions on where and when he should turn up. In a quiet voice the man in his dark uniform with shiny peaked cap told John to sit
down and wait. The man picked up a telephone and spoke in a voice too quiet to be overheard. He put down the phone and went back to reading something.  A copy of the Times sat there on a low table in the middle of the room in case he wanted to read it but he was too nervous. The waiting room was panelled in dark wood. The floor was made of black and white tiles all looking like they dated back to the reign of the great queen herself. The time went slowly. To fend off anxiety, he counted the tiles. Every now again men in sober suits and women in sensible dresses would come and go, nodding to the guard. They all knew what they were doing here. Then the phone rang and the guard picked it up. In a murmur he conversed with whoever was on the other end of the line. Then he spoke to John, "Mr Gilroy, if you would like to go through now."

He gestured to the door. Not unfriendly, but without a smile. There was the same click of the door lock releasing that he had heard when the other people had gone through. He stood
up and as if entering another secret world, John pushed open the door and stepped through into a corridor that looked almost exactly the same to the waiting room. A man in a grey suit was waiting for him. He looked military - short, greying hair, neat moustache - in fact everything about him was neat. He had a folded white handkerchief in his breast pocket. He extended a scrubbed clean hand to John and welcomed him to the interview.

             
"Mr Gilroy, or may I call you John?"

             
"Of course, John's fine."

             
"I am Anthony Clayton. If you'd follow me, there is a little test we'd like you to carry out first. Just through in this room."

             
He followed Mr Clayton who pushed a dark wooden door open. Behind it was a small room with a table and a chair. There was a tape machine on the table and a large reel of tape loaded ready to play. There was also a pair of headphones, sheets of paper and a pencil. A woman stood beside the chair. "Would you like a glass of water Mr Gilroy?" she said.

             
John's mouth was dry. "Yes, please," he said, "If you don't mind."

             
"Of course not. I'll go and get it."

             
Mr Clayton indicated for him to sit down. "This will take about half an hour. There is a tape here and I'd like you to listen to it and translate what you hear. Write it down on the paper in front of you. I will come back and collect your translation. After that there will be an interview with a panel of three." Mr Clayton smiled. "Please don't be nervous. There's nothing to worry about."