Our Kind of Traitor (6 page)

‘
Walking
again,’ Gail overemphasizes for Yvonne’s benefit. ‘Not hopping, skipping or yelling.
Walking
, and looking as tight-lipped and bug-eyed as they had at the tennis court. Irina with her thumb in her mouth and a big scowl, Katya’s voice about as friendly as a speaking clock: “Will you swim with us, please, Miss Gail?” So
I
said – hoping to loosen things up a bit, I suppose – “Miss Katya, Mr Perry and I will be most honoured to swim with you.” So we swam. Didn’t we?’ – to Perry, who having nodded his assent, again insisted on putting his hand on hers, either in a gesture of support or to steady her down, she wasn’t sure which, but the result either way was the same; she was forced to close her eyes and wait several seconds before she was ready to resume, which she did in another gush.

‘It was a
total
set-up.
We
knew it was a set-up. The
children
knew it was a set-up. But if ever two girls needed a splash-about with a crocodile and a bouncing ball, these two did, right, Perry?’

‘Absolutely,’ says Perry enthusiastically.

‘So Irina battened on to my hand and practically
frogmarched
me into the water. Katya and Perry came after us with the crocodile. And all the time I was thinking: where on earth are their parents and why are we doing this instead of them? I didn’t ask Katya outright. I suppose I had some sort of premonition it might be a bad question. A divorce situation, something like that. So I asked her who the nice gentleman in the hat was, the one sitting on the ladder? Uncle Vanya, says Katya. Great, I say, who’s Uncle Vanya? Answer, just an uncle. From Perm? Yes, from Perm. No further explanation offered. Like: we don’t go to school in Rome any more. Have I foot-faulted yet, Perry?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Then I’ll continue.’

*

For a while, the sun and sea do their job, she goes on: ‘The girls splash and leap around and Perry is a
complete riot
as mighty Poseidon rising from the deep and making his sea-monster noises – no, honestly, you
were
, Perry, you were
marvellous
, admit it.’

Exhausted, they stagger ashore, the girls to be dried, dressed and sun-creamed by Elspeth.

‘But within literally
seconds
they’re back, squatting on the edge of my towel. And one
look
at their faces tells me the gloomy shadows are still there, they’ve just been hiding. Right, I think: ice creams and fizzies. Perry, this is man’s work, I tell him, do your duty. Right, Perry?’

Fizzies?
she repeats to herself. Why am I sounding like my bloody mother again? Because I’m another failed actress with a six-acre voice that gets louder the longer I speak.

‘Right,’ Perry agrees belatedly.

‘And off he strides to get them, don’t you? Caramel-and-nut cones for everybody, pineapple juice for the girls. But when Perry comes to
sign
for them, the barman tells him everything is paid for. Who by?’ – she gallops on with the same false gaiety – ‘By Vanya! By the ever-so-kind fat uncle in the tam-o’-shanter stuck up on the ladder. But
Perry
, being Perry, you can’t be doing with this, can you?’

Awkward shake of the elongated head to say he’s out of earshot on the cliff face, but has got the message.

‘He’s pathologically uncomfortable freeloading on someone else’s tab, aren’t you? And this is someone you don’t even
know
. So up the ladder Perry goes to tell Uncle Vanya, very kind of him and all that, but he prefers to pay his own way.’

She dries. With none of her desperate levity, Perry takes up the story for her:

‘I went up the ladder where Vanya was sitting on his rubber ring. I ducked under the sunshade to say my piece and found myself staring at a very large black pistol butt sticking out from under his
gut. He’d unbuttoned his buckskin waistcoat in the heat, and there it was, bright as day. I don’t know guns, thank God. Don’t want to. You people do, no doubt. This one was family size,’ he says regretfully, and an eloquent silence falls as he shoots a plaintive glance at Gail and receives no answering look for his pains.

*

‘And you didn’t think to comment, Perry?’ deft little Luke suggests, ever the one to paper over gaps. ‘On the gun, I mean.’

‘No I did not. I reckoned he hadn’t seen that I’d noticed, so I decided it was tactically sensible of me not to have noticed either. I thanked him for the ice cream and went back down the ladder to where Gail was chatting to the girls.’

Luke reflects on this in a rather intense way. Something seems to have got under his skin. Could it perhaps be the tricky question of spy’s etiquette that was bothering him? What do you do if you see a chap’s gun sticking out of his waistcoat and you don’t know him very well? Tell him it’s showing, or just ignore it? Like when someone you don’t know very well hasn’t done their zip up.

The Scottish blue-stocking Yvonne decides to help Luke out of his dilemma:

‘In
English
, Perry?’ she asks severely. ‘You thanked him in
English
, I take it. Did he
reply
in English at all?’

‘He didn’t reply in any language. However, I did notice that he was wearing a black mourning button pinned to his waistcoat, something I hadn’t seen for a long time. And
you
didn’t know they existed, did you?’ he demanded accusingly.

Puzzled by his aggression, Gail shakes her head. It’s true, Perry. Guilty as charged. I didn’t know about mourning buttons and now I do, so you can get on with the story, can’t you?

‘And it didn’t occur to you to alert the hotel, for instance, Perry?’ Luke asks doggedly. ‘“There’s a Russian with a family-size gun sitting up in the lifeguard’s lookout”?’

‘Many possibilities suggested themselves, Luke, and that was no doubt one of them,’ Perry replies, his bout of aggression not yet
run out. ‘But what on earth was the hotel supposed to do? There was every indication that, if Dima didn’t actually own the place, he had it in his pocket. Anyway, we had the children to consider: whether it was right to make a fuss in front of everyone. We decided it wasn’t.’

‘And the island’s police authorities? You didn’t think of them?’ – Luke again.

‘We had four more days. We didn’t intend to spend them making dramatic statements to the police about goings-on they were probably up to their necks in anyway.’

‘And that was a
joint
decision?’

‘It was an executive decision. Mine. I wasn’t about to march up to Gail and say, “Vanya’s got a gun stuck in his belt, d’you think we should tell the police?” – least of all in front of the girls. Once we were alone and I’d got my bearings, I told her what I’d seen. We talked it through rationally, and that was the decision we came up with: no action.’

Overtaken by an involuntary rush of loving support, Gail backs him up with her Counsel’s Opinion: ‘Maybe Vanya had a perfectly good local permit to carry the gun. What did Perry know? Maybe Vanya didn’t
need
a permit. Maybe the police had given him the gun in the first place. We weren’t exactly up in Antiguan gun law, were we, Perry, either of us?’

She half expects Yvonne to raise a contrary point of law, but Yvonne’s too busy consulting her copy of the offending document in its buff folder:

‘Could I trouble the two of you for a description of this
Uncle Vanya
, please?’ she asks in an aggression-free voice.

‘Pockmarked,’ says Gail promptly, again dazzled by how it was all there before her in her memory. Fifty-odd. Pumice-stone cheeks. A drinker’s paunch. She thought she’d seen him drinking surreptitiously from a flask at the tennis, but couldn’t be sure.

‘Rings on each finger of his right hand,’ says Perry when it’s his turn. ‘Seen collectively, a knuckleduster. Black, scarecrow hair, jutting out from the back of his hat, but I suspect he was bald on
top and that was why he wore the tam-o’-shanter. Lot of blubber on him.’

And yes, Yvonne, that’s him, they agree in a shared murmur, their heads touching and the electricity flying between them as they gaze at the full-plate photograph she has slipped under their noses. Yes, that’s Vanya from Perm, second from left of four merry, overweight white men sitting in a nightclub surrounded by hookers and paper streamers and bottles of champagne on New Year’s Eve 2008 in God-knows-where.

*

Gail needs the loo. Yvonne leads her up the narrow basement stairs to the mysteriously plush ground floor. Genial Ollie without his beret is stretched out in a winged armchair, deep in a newspaper. It’s not your ordinary sort of paper, being printed in Cyrillic. Gail thinks she deciphers
Novaya Gazeta
but can’t be certain and doesn’t want to do him the favour of asking. Yvonne waits while Gail pees. The loo is fancy, with pretty hand towels, scented soap and hunting prints of Jorrocks on expensive wallpaper. They return downstairs. Perry remains stooped over his hands, but this time the palms are upward so he looks as though he’s reading two fortunes at once.

‘So, Gail,’ says little Luke smartly. ‘Your shout again, I think.’

Not a shout, actually, Luke. A fucking scream, one that’s been banking up in me for some while now, as I think you may have noticed in the course of resting your eyes on me a little more frequently than the spies’
Handbook of Inter-Gender Etiquette
considers strictly necessary.

*

‘I simply had no idea,’ she begins, talking straight ahead of her, but favouring Yvonne over Luke. ‘I just blundered in. I should have realized. I didn’t.’

‘You’ve absolutely nothing to reproach yourself with,’ Perry retorts hotly from her side. ‘Nobody told you, nobody gave you the slightest warning. If anyone was to blame, Dima’s lot were.’

Gail is not to be consoled. She is a lawyer in a brick-lined wine cellar at dead of night, assembling the case against the accused, and the accused is herself. She is lying face down on a beach in Antigua under a sunshade in mid-afternoon with her top undone and two small girls squatting beside her and Perry is stretched out on her other side wearing his schoolboy shorts and a pair of his late father’s National Health spectacles fitted with his own prescription sunglass lenses.

The girls have eaten their free ice creams and drunk their free fruit juice. Uncle Vanya from Perm is up his ladder with the family-sized pistol in his belt and Natasha – whose name is a challenge to Gail every time she approaches it; she has to gather herself together and make a clean jump of it like horse-riding at school –
Natasha
is lying the other end of the beach in splendid isolation. Elspeth meanwhile has withdrawn to a safe distance. Perhaps she knows what’s about to happen. With the hindsight she is not allowed to indulge, Gail thinks so.

The shadows are back in the girls’ faces, she notices. The professional in her fears they may share a bad secret. With the stuff she has to listen to in court most days of the week, that’s what bothers her, that’s what drives her curiosity: children who don’t chatter and aren’t naughty. Children who don’t realize they’re victims. Children who can’t look you in the eye. Children who blame themselves for the things adults do to them.

‘I ask questions for a
living
,’ she protests. She is saying everything to Yvonne now. Luke is a blur and Perry is outside her frame, relegated there deliberately. ‘I’ve done family courts, I’ve had children in the witness box. What we do
in
our work, we do
out of
our work. We’re not two people. We’re just us.’

In a gesture intended to ease her stress rather than his own, Perry cranes his body upwards and gives a swimmer’s stretch of his long arms, but Gail’s stress isn’t eased.

‘So the first thing I said to them was: tell me some more about Uncle Vanya. They’d been so cryptic about him I thought he might be a bad uncle. “Uncle Vanya plays the balalaika with us, we love
him very much, and he’s funny when he gets drunk.” That’s Irina speaking. She’s decided to be more forthcoming than her big sister. But I’m thinking: a drunken uncle who plays music to them, what else does he play?’

‘And the language spoken still
English
, we take it,’ Yvonne asks, in her pursuit of every last detail. But gently now, woman to woman. ‘We’re not into basic French or anything?’

‘English was virtually their first language.
Internat
American English with a slight
Italian
accent. So then I asked, is Vanya a real uncle or just an honorary one? Answer: Vanya is our mother’s brother and he used to be married to Aunt Raïsa who lives in Sochi with another husband nobody likes. We’re doing family tree now, which is great by me. Tamara is Dima’s wife, and she’s very strict, and she prays a lot because she’s holy and she is kind to have us.
Kind?
Have us how?
And then I say – I’m being a really clever lawyer now, asking the tangential questions, not the in-your-face ones – is Dima
kind
to Tamara? Is Dima
kind
to his boys? Meaning: is Dima a bit too kind to you? And Katya says, yes, Dima is kind to Tamara because he is her husband and her sister’s dead, and Dima is kind to Natasha because he’s her father and her mother’s dead, and to his sons because he’s their father. Which opens the door to the question I
really
want to ask, and I put it to Katya because she’s older: So who’s
your
father, Katya? And Katya says, he’s dead. And Irina joins in and says, so’s our mother. They’re both dead. I do a kind of “oh really?” and when they just look at me, I say, I’m very sad for you. How long have they been dead? I wasn’t even sure I believed them. There was a bit of me that was still hoping they were pulling some gruesome children’s trick. By now it’s Irina doing the talking and Katya who’s gone into a kind of trance. So have I, but that’s beside the point. They died on
Wednesday
, Irina says. A lot of emphasis on the day. As if the day’s to blame.
Wednesday
was when they died, whenever
Wednesday
was. So I say – it just gets worse and worse – you mean
last
Wednesday? And Irina says, yes, Wednesday a week ago, the 29th of April: very precisely, making sure I get it right. So Wednesday last week and something about a car smash, and I just sit there staring at them, and Irina takes
my hand and pats it and Katya puts her head in my lap, and Perry who I’ve completely forgotten about wraps his arm round me, and I’m the only person crying.’