The Truth (9 page)

Rex drank appreciatively, rolling the champagne round his mouth before setting down his glass.

‘Krystyna tells me you’re a writer. I admire anyone who can write. I come up with the odd speech or two but not the imaginative stuff.’

Like a chess player before a big game, Mabbut had rehearsed his moves on the way there, but the one thing he hadn’t prepared for was amiability. He nodded, intending to look blank, but it came out as surly.

‘What the
fuck
are you doing with my wife?’ is what he really wanted to say.

‘It’s never easy,’ is what he actually said.

‘I know quite a few chaps who are harbouring little masterpieces. And of course dear old Cloudesley Marshall actually had one published. It was a thriller, very James Bond. Lots of sex. Which is something one wouldn’t normally associate with Cloudesley. He used to run the Boy Scouts.’

Mabbut felt like a rabbit caught in headlights. Bereft of a strategy to make them talk about what they should surely be talking about,
he could only listen. Krystyna, Polish and practical, took refuge in arrangements.

‘We shall be in New York for some time. Then we go to Ottawa.’

Rex grimaced.

‘Frightful place. Bloody cold and all the buildings look like elephant turds. But we’re supposed to be nice to Canada these days. All sorts of things brewing. Know about the Athabasca tar sands?’

Mabbut nodded. Here was something he did know about. Once.

‘I was an energy correspondent.’

‘Well then, you probably know far better than me what’s going on there. Millions of dollars being spent buggering up the place, environmentalists up in arms, and quite rightly too, but they are passing an awful lot of business our way. We still have a lot of mining expertise and thankfully it’s appreciated out there. Anyway, I have to go and make sure we’re being nice to everybody and not letting Hamish Melville do the rain dance on them.’

Mabbut looked up sharply.

‘Hamish Melville? How does he come into it?’

‘Well, you know Hamish. Everyone knows Hamish. If there’s a pie, his finger will be in it somewhere.’

Krystyna frowned and asked, ‘Isn’t he some kind of unofficial ambassador? Goes where the government daren’t go?’

Rex raised his eyebrows.

‘Oh, Hamish is as Hamish is portrayed. A super chap, but he doesn’t always have the bigger picture in mind.’

‘How d’you mean?’ asked Mabbut.

‘Well, he has his own agenda. The tar sands aren’t absolutely unpopulated, and in the north-west, by the Yannahook river, there’s a group of bods called the Sahallas. Indians. First Nations, they call them now. Not that many of them and a lot seem quite happy to go and work in the casinos in Calgary. But there’s a hard core that money won’t shift. These people are like a magnet to Hamish and he’s been up there, well, how can I put it, “advising them of their rights”.’

This riled Mabbut. ‘That’s fair enough, isn’t it? If it’s their land.’

‘Well, in theory, yes.’

‘It’s their moral right.’

‘Forgive me, but I’ve had this argument with Hamish many times. Yes, these people have rights. But there’s an awful lot of land and very few of them living on it. Our view is that they can still lead decent lives, uninterfered with, on part of the land, and let the rest be . . . er . . . developed. That way everyone benefits and they get a damned decent royalty for their people.’

Mabbut took another sip of what was, even in his limited experience, a very fine champagne.

‘You know Hamish Melville, then?’

‘Inasmuch as anyone knows Hamish, yes.’

Rex drank rather delicately, thought Mabbut, for a big man.

‘Long ago, in the mists of time, I had the privilege of representing the people of Bletchley and South Beds in Her Majesty’s Parliament. I’d travelled a bit and spoke a couple of languages so I found myself a comfortable little spot in the FCO – Foreign and Commonwealth Office as it then was . . .’

Mabbut was aware of Krystyna adjusting her position, looking quickly from one of them to the other, and he knew that she was willing the conversation on, as if this shared interest might help them avoid confrontation.

Rex smoothed a corner of the tablecloth.

‘At that time, we’re talking nearly twenty years ago now, Hamish was on the payroll. Roving brief sort of thing. He’d a background in the military and the City – not an unusual combination – and of course he had this wicked charm. So . . .’

At Rex’s almost subliminal nod more champagne appeared from the gloom.

‘He became most useful to us in a number of delicate situations. Hostage talks, raids on installations, that sort of thing. He was very successful, a sort of latter-day T. E. Lawrence. Major – John Major, that is – wanted to bring him into government, quite high up too, but Hamish wasn’t interested. He wasn’t political in any way. And quite possibly because of that he began to pull away from anything official. Rarely came back to the country and from what one could tell he began to use what he’d learnt in a more . . . well . . . international sphere. In ’97 I lost my seat, which was quite a
relief to be honest. My wife died the same year, which was also quite a relief.’

His delivery was finely paced, assured. This was a man who was used to being listened to.

‘So, quite suddenly, at the grand old age of fifty-nine and a half, I found myself footloose and fancy free. Like a lot of Tories who got the push in ’97 I picked up a few directorships, dabbled in hedge funds – all sorts of wickedness – and also went back to my first love, which was poodling round the globe. Every now and then our paths would cross, usually in some bar or at a friend’s place. Hamish avoided embassies like the plague. He sort of went native, but he always knew exactly what he was doing.’

‘Which was?’

‘Helping people everyone else ignored, basically. And making a fair nuisance of himself in the process.’

‘Which he’s still doing.’

‘As far as I know.’

Rex looked across at Krystyna. This time it was more than a glance – an unhurried look of unmistakable warmth. He lightly, affectionately, took her hand and with the other summoned a waiter from the shadows.

‘Stay for a bite with us?’ he said.

It was the touch of her hand as much as the ‘us’ that hit Mabbut hard.

‘No, I won’t. Thank you.’

He pushed back his chair and stood up. Aware he’d done so rather too quickly, Mabbut took care placing it neatly beneath the table. Anything to avoid looking at Krystyna.

Rex too stood, and held out his hand.

‘I’m glad we’ve met.’

Mabbut nodded. He wanted to speak, but found himself unable to. The two men shook hands and Mabbut turned, his eyes passing over Krystyna’s without engaging. He located the exit and walked down the mirrored corridor that led him to the entrance. He pulled hard at the heavy black door, like a man trying to escape a fire. Only when he pushed did the door swing open and release him into the street.

And it was there, on the corner of Furness Gardens and Fulham Road, that a tsunami of self-pity swept over him. Tears came: pathetic, unbidden and unstoppable. Two special constables strolled by and, seeing him, looked quickly away.

The 43 bus dropped him on the corner of Lodge Street, a five-minute walk from the house.

Mabbut fumbled for his keys – far too many on the ring – and pushed open the front door. The hallway was dark, but he could see a sliver of light beneath the kitchen door and hear voices. He switched on the hall light and clattered about a bit hanging his coat up, but he still made Jay and Shiraj jump apart when he entered the kitchen. It seemed innocent enough. They were just close, not doing anything.

Jay was all brittle brightness.

‘Hello, Dad. We’ve just made some food.’

‘Sausages?’

Shiraj looked at Jay, concerned until he saw her break into a smile.

‘I promise, Dad, I’ll get some tomorrow. Great big thick, beefy-venison-pork-sage, everything you like. But you can cook them.’

‘Can’t wait.’

‘Have something now. Shiraj has made carrot and yogurt soup, and it’s delicious.’

‘No, I’ve already eaten,’ Mabbut lied. ‘And I’ve some work to do.’

He looked from Jay to Shiraj. Shiraj put his hand to his heart.

‘Thank you, sir, for allowing me into your home.’

Mabbut nodded.

‘Goodnight, all.’

‘Dad?’

Jay’s voice made him jump. He was at his writing table, in a halo of halogen, bent over his work, miles away from the world.

‘Hi, love. How are you?’

She came across to him. He felt her arms resting lightly on his shoulder.

‘I’m fine. How are you?’

Without turning, he reached for her hand.

‘I saw your mother tonight.’

‘I know. She called.’

‘Met him. Tyrannosaurus Rex.’

‘And what did you think?’

‘I liked him . . . yes, I liked him.’

Then something gave again, and for the second time that evening emotion got the better of him.

‘I liked him, Jay. That’s the bloody trouble! I
liked
him.’

Mabbut raised both hands up to hers.

‘Oh, shit!’

‘I’m sorry, Dad. I really am.’

‘Don’t be sorry. She’s happy. He’s a nice guy. You’re happy. He’s a nice guy. I’ll get over it.’

It took him two or three deep breaths before he regained control.

His daughter squeezed his shoulders, and they were silent for a while. When he’d composed himself Mabbut leant forward and adjusted the screen in front of him.

‘This your novel, Dad?’

‘No, no. It’s just some info on someone.’

Jay peered at the screen.

‘Hamish Melville.’

‘You know him?’

‘Of course, Dad. I’m not completely stupid.’

‘I thought he’d be a little out of your age range.’

‘Melville? He was a hero at school. Fighting the big boys. Siding with the locals. Tramping off into the middle of nowhere. He won a Year Six debate for who they’d most like to see running the country. Why are you looking him up?’

‘Someone . . . someone’s asked me to write a book about him.’

‘
A book about Hamish Melville?
’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow! That’s fantastic, Dad. Are they going to pay you?’

‘Oh yes. Quite a lot.’

‘Are you going to do it?’

Mabbut leant back, rubbed his eyes and stared at the screen.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m getting myself into. I keep telling myself that all I really want to do is write my novel.
That’s what’s new and exciting. Then I talk to you and Shiraj and even bloody Rex and the whole thing suddenly seems . . . I don’t know . . . intriguing.’

‘Intriguing?’

Mabbut grinned and shook his head.

‘The publishing company’s keen, but I don’t trust them. And Melville hates journalists.’

He gave a bleak smile.

‘Bad man wants book written. Good man doesn’t want book written. It’s the sort of thing that makes the ears prick up.’

‘So what’s stopping you?’

‘I don’t know exactly . . . You. Sam. The family. It’s a tight deadline and would mean my going away again. If I do it properly.’

Mabbut sighed.

‘I’ve been away too long, too often. Your mother’s right. I’ve been bad at being a father and bad at being a husband. I’ve got to put some time in. Make some repairs.’

Jay squeezed his hand and giggled.

‘Dad, you sound like the Odd Job Man.’

Despite himself, Mabbut laughed at this. The Odd Job Man was a part of family folklore, a character they’d met on holiday in the Lake District who had a compulsive need to fix things. He was constantly under tables and up small ladders, taking perfectly efficient things apart and putting them back together again. One day his wife revealed that he was having treatment for the condition in Preston, but long before that his place in the pantheon of Mabbut family heroes was assured.

‘Seriously, you’re like Sam.’

Mabbut frowned. ‘Me? Like Sam?’

‘You’re both really good at what you do, but you’re always the last to see it.’

He smiled. ‘Have we got a picture of him?’

‘Sam?’

‘No, the Odd Job Man. I’d like to see him again.’

‘I’ll have a look. There must be one somewhere.’

And they both laughed at the memory. A shared laugh. Unreserved, and for a moment at least, infectious.

Mabbut lay awake into the small hours. Another sleepless night that had started with too much unhealthy imagining of Krystyna with Rex began to refocus around Melville, the book and something Shiraj had said. Something about too many good people making up stories, as if it were a waste of their talents. Mabbut knew he could do the book and do it bloody well. So what, exactly, was stopping him? Was it just the suspiciously large amount of money he was being offered?