The Truth (32 page)

Keith, you’re the man in the middle. To reel you in they had to play on your impeccable liberal credentials and the attraction of my own impeccable liberal credentials to someone like yourself. The problem is that an impeccable liberal
book is no good to them. You and I agreed on the things we wanted to say – about the Earth and how we look after it – and that didn’t need dirt. So they’ve dug up some dirt for you and left it on your doorstep
.

I happen to know that there’s a price on my head now, and being a living legend is not going to protect me from some unfortunate accident. Whatever happens I shall go on with my work and hope people will understand that the past is the past and has nothing to do with the work I’ve done since. The one thing I can thank these bastards for is that I’ve had a chance to show you it’s possible to make a difference
.

You do what you want to do, Keith. I don’t want to drag you any farther into all this. I appreciate you’re being paid well and I’m sure you could use the money. I’ll hold no grudges if you decide to go ahead. I’m used to being misunderstood. It’s a badge of honour!

Regards
,

Hamish

Almost an hour later Silla arrived in a cab. She still had her cough and blamed a heavy schedule at the Madrid Book Week for impeding her recovery. They didn’t talk much about the book. She could tell Mabbut wasn’t happy with the situation but at the same time she said she was pleased and relieved that he’d done what he had to do. He’d even put the manuscript in a nice red folder.

‘Thanks, dear boy. I’ll call you in the morning.’

Mabbut picked up the folder. ‘I’ll come with you. Deliver it personally.’

‘If you’re sure you want to do that. Ron’ll appreciate it.’

At around half-past seven they drew up outside Latham’s glittering apartment block beside the river in Battersea.

Silla paid the fare and they walked towards the lobby. Automatic doors slid aside to admit them. Mabbut looked around.

‘I thought he lived in the office.’

Silla laughed. ‘He takes Sunday evenings off.’

She announced their names to a bored security guard, who queried the name twice before buzzing Latham’s apartment. Once inside the lift Silla pressed the button for the twentieth floor and with a breathy hiss they were swept upwards and disgorged into a silent, carpeted, climate-controlled corridor.

Ron opened the door, raising his eyebrows when he saw the two of them. He was wearing a white towelling robe and his face was bright pink.

‘Keith! What a nice surprise.’ He stood back to let them in. ‘I hadn’t expected the author himself.’

Mabbut caught the quick exchange of glances with Silla. He stepped into the room. It was what he’d expected: modern furniture, a lot of appliances. Speakers, screens, things in aluminium. Framed certificates on the wall. More surprisingly, a lot of books, on wall-to-ceiling shelves. Some novels among them.

‘Drink?’ asked Latham. ‘I’ve been breaking my back down in the gym, so I’m on iced water. Silla?’

She chose a juice and Mabbut a beer and Latham went to fetch them from the kitchen.

‘That’s a view,’ said Silla, walking across to the window. The size and height of the plate glass made Mabbut feel slightly queasy. A Lufthansa Airbus, sinking towards Heathrow with a mournful wail, passed across their line of vision like something from a computer game. She made a face. ‘I can never get used to it.’

Mabbut just had time to pick up on the remark when Latham appeared with the drinks on a tray.

‘Heineken all right?’

‘That’s fine. Thanks.’

They sat down on either side of a low glass-topped table, Mabbut and Silla together, Latham opposite. He raised his glass.

‘So, bang on time. Cheers and thanks all round.’ Latham smiled magnanimously at Mabbut. ‘I know it wasn’t easy for you, and I apologise about the pressure, but I appreciate what you’ve done, Keith. I think it’s something we’ll all be proud of.’

Latham pulled his robe tighter around him and eyed the red binder.

‘So, do I get to have a look?’

He and Silla laughed, and he reached forward. As he did so Mabbut put his hand on the manuscript.

‘I just wanted to say a few thanks of my own, Ron. If I may. Now that the book’s finished.’

Ron nodded. ‘That’s nice.’

For some reason, Mabbut noted the time on the digital clock on the sideboard. It was 19:38. Another airliner, lights flashing, cruised across the window.

Mabbut raised his glass.

‘Ron, Silla, I want to thank you both for giving me the chance to do this book. I also want to thank Karl Hattiker and the Hattiker family for enabling the Hemisphere Grain Group to continue their good work in clearing the rainforests of the world, and for generously donating some of the profits to fund the activities of Wide Hatt Publishing, without whom there would be no Urgent Books. I should like to thank you, Ron, as my publisher, for encouraging me to look at all aspects of the life of a previously honourable man and to you, Silla, for standing by me when I wavered. And to Hamish Melville, wherever he is, I say thank you for all you have done to open my eyes and the eyes of the world to what is really going on.’

No one moved.

‘Hamish, I hope I’ve kept my side of the bargain.’

He drank deeply, set the glass down on the mirrored table, and only then did he take his hand off the folder and push it across the table.

‘Goodbye, Ron. Bye, Silla. Thanks for the drink. Enjoy the book.’

And with that Mabbut stood, collected his coat, and left.

Silla sat staring at the door as if she was expecting it to be opened again and the whole scene rerun to a different script. But it remained closed. Latham pulled the file towards him. He loosened the elastic at either corner and drew out the manuscript.

‘Well, at least I don’t have to be nice to him any longer.’

Silla flashed him a look of irritation.

‘Come on, Ron. He gave you what you wanted in the end.’

She paused.

‘Ron?’

Latham was staring down at the title page, his face immobile. His left hand beat hard and fast on the top of the table.

‘What’s the matter?’

Latham said nothing, but shot the manuscript across the table towards her.

‘Take a look.’

Silla gasped. She ruffled through the first few pages as if they might offer some explanation but they only confirmed her worst fears. There it was on the title page, in sixteen-point bold Times New Roman:

Triumph in Adversity. The Official History of The Sullom Voe Oil Terminal
.

TEN

T
he terminal came into sight as Mabbut drove down the immaculate road that ran alongside the company’s airstrip. A private jet was loading up and a line of stooped figures in high-visibility jackets, heads down into the wind, were hurrying towards the aircraft steps. High in the sky, white clouds were dashing across from the west. A moment later the dark waters of the Voe appeared to his left. With a twinge of nostalgia, he glimpsed the four familiar piers jutting out from the terminal complex. A Norwegian-registered crude carrier, the
Olaf Kohner
of Bergen, was offloading oil from one of the newly opened deep-water fields out in the North Atlantic. On higher ground, behind the jetties, stood the rows of crude-oil storage tanks. Sixteen circular drums, each one capable of holding 600,000 barrels. Mabbut once knew this world well. This thousand-acre city squatting on damp and windswept hills where not much more than thirty years ago there was nothing but isolated crofts and grazing sheep.

Mabbut pulled up at the barrier to the car park. There was a new man on security, someone he’d not seen before. He handed over the permit he’d been given.

‘My name’s Mabbut. I’m here to see the head of External Relations.’

The man consulted a list carefully, moving his lips as he read through the names.

‘Have you any means of identification?’

‘Apart from the letter with my name on it?’

The man, whose complexion was so smooth it was almost baby-like, simply nodded.

Mabbut dug around in his wallet and handed over his driver’s
licence. A flock of herring gulls wheeled around a garbage truck that was emerging from the service entrance.

Once inside the compound, Mabbut cruised the long rows of parked cars until he found a space close to the administration building. He reversed in, as was required by the regulations. To one side loomed the tall walls of the terminal’s own power plant. The largest building on Shetland, they proudly used to say, as if that made up for the way it looked. Behind him was a ten-foot security fence topped with coils of razor wire. Behind that, rabbits were playing on the hillside.

It had been only a month since he’d walked away from the book deal, although it seemed more like a year, so profoundly had his life changed. For once, he hadn’t looked back, had second thoughts, or sought compromise. Instead, he had stayed at home, cleaned the house, painted the front doorstep, washed down the garden chairs and enjoyed the summer evenings. He had realised, with some surprise, that his self-respect and confidence, far from being shattered, were enhanced. There would always be the Sillas and the Lathams of this world who would tell you what you should do, but however persuasive, understanding and even generous they might be, they were ultimately acting on their own behalf. He, on the other hand, had been very bad at acting at all. Silla was right. He had too often been passive; full of thoughts and ideas and opinions but always waiting for someone else to tell him what to do with them. But through Melville he had acquired a confidence in his own judgement that he had never known before. He was not a fool. He knew that, true or false, Trickett’s evidence was always there, and he could hardly deny that Ursula existed, but from the moment Latham and Urgent decided that these should be key ingredients in a book about an inspirational environmentalist he knew where they were going. And he knew that he must not accompany them.

It was now up to him to make sure that the story Urgent wanted to tell would never see the light of day. In the days that followed his last meeting he had consolidated this position. Not only had he refused to do Ron Latham’s rewrites, he had threatened that if anyone else did, he would produce a full account of Ron’s part in the whole affair. Lawyers locked horns, threats were made, dust was
raised, but within a couple of weeks the deadline for meeting a Christmas publication schedule passed and by the end of the month Mabbut was able to share with Wendy Lu the good news that Urgent had quietly put the book to one side.

Krystyna had been predictably unforgiving about his decision to abandon a small fortune, but he no longer felt vulnerable to her taunts. Nor was the money as important or necessary. Rex, that decent man, had stepped in to bankroll the family while demanding nothing back. Apart from Krystyna.

So here he was, back on the island where the news that Krystyna wanted to finalise their separation had first hit him like a sledgehammer. Now, with hindsight, he was able to accept that if it had not been for his stubborn refusal to let Krystyna go, much unhappiness would have been avoided. Last week, with the approval of all the family, he had agreed not to contest the divorce.

Almost exactly on the dot of one o’clock he saw Mae Lennox leave the building. He opened the door and waved. She grinned, waved back and made her way to the car. He leaned over to kiss her. She offered both cheeks, formally, as if they were still at work.

‘You’re cold,’ she said.

‘I’ve had the window open. I thought we could go to that new place in Brae,’ he said as he drove towards the gate.

Mae seemed breathless, as if she’d run from somewhere.

‘That’d be nice. I mustn’t be longer than the hour, though. There’s a bit of a crisis on.’

‘Oh?’

‘There’ve been gales all week out in the Atlantic and one of the loading tankers hit the rig. Could have been a whole lot worse but they’ve closed the operation, which of course makes everyone a wee bit twitchy.’

As they turned on to the road towards Brae, Mabbut was aware of Mae fiddling with her clothing. Opening her coat, adjusting a scarf, tugging at her tight grey jacket.

‘Well, hey, what a surprise!’

Mabbut laughed. ‘I told you I’d come up, didn’t I?’

‘Have you brought your new book?’

His face clouded. ‘No . . . it didn’t exactly work out.’

‘I was looking forward to that, Keith.’

‘So was I, but it wasn’t meant to be.’

‘I’m sorry about that. You must be gutted.’

A sharp squall blew in from nowhere. Mabbut flicked on the wipers as the rain spat against the windscreen.

‘Oh no. It was all for the best. I promise you.’

Sammy’s Fish Bar had a well-scrubbed white-wood feel to it. There was a takeaway section that was busier than the tables, so they found themselves sitting beside a big picture window with room to spare. Over fish and chips, Mabbut told Mae the whole story, about the book and how he’d walked away from it, and about Krystyna and the divorce.