The Oktober Projekt (16 page)

He stepped into the dark hall, and the swell of an unwelcome
voice met him, the strident tones of Angela’s mother phrasing shrill orders to
her husband on what room was next for cleaning.

‘It’s you’, she said coming to check the latest arrival, her
bitter contempt resurfacing, functioning at a hundred per cent.

‘Now, Nick,’ began her husband, his strategic speech prepared
in advance, another of his polished pitch presentations perfected during his
career as a banker. ‘We appreciate how difficult this must be, but,’ and he
sought approval from his wife, ‘we thought it best if we made a start on
sorting Angela’s things. We’re just boxing them up for now, make the place
presentable. You can of course choose things for yourself. I also took the
precautionary measure of having the locks changed as you weren’t here.’

‘Never was,’ said Angie’s mother as Nick accepted a set of
shiny keys, ‘that was always the problem. If he had been…,’ she broke off with
an anguished snort and went back to laying claim to her daughter again.

The last of the day’s sun strayed through a long window, dull
stalks falling across the detritus of his life. In every room Nick smelt dust
and Angie’s feint lingering scent, but what troubled him was the loss of
Angie’s voice, its disappearance too loud in itself. In the kitchen even though
its walls were scrubbed clean, as he rummaged through a cupboard for his case
of Laphroaig, he found blood smattered along the top of a cabinet door. All the
cupboards had been emptied, the contents stored in sturdy packing boxes.
Finding the remains of his Laphroaig, Nick took out two bottles, and grabbing a
large mineral water prepared to control his withdrawal.
                     

Armed with his liquid solace Nick made straight for Angela’s
studio; a terrible silence unbroken from the bottom step to the landing and her
door when the stairs used to be her territory, Angie’s pulpit for lecturing
him. Everything around him wasn’t as he wanted to remember it, the familiar
things he now dreaded to touch.
 
Beside the window Angela’s easel and stool kicked over, her plan chest
ransacked, her last sketch screwed in a ball lying with pencils and a smashed
glass in the fireplace. Hanging out of the plan chest a plain hardback book
Angie used as a diary; illustrated outpourings, her intimate feelings that Nick
began to read and immediately wanted to put down, forget he’d ever seen it.
Angie had lied to Nick when he’d asked months ago if there’d been someone else.
There always had been a string of lovers.
 

A world underground she’d made her own, formed from secret
conventions and moments to savour. Reading between the lines on several
entries, he found that Angie believed the actual sex was secondary to the
excitement she gained from cheating on him. Having Tom was a mistake; a
tortuous period she wanted erased and never repeated, she’d written in an
assertive hand. Turning one page, Nick came across a pressed flower and a small
black and white photograph with crimped edges showing a pretty girl aged six or
seven who he guessed was Angie, posing in a forest. This before you became a
victim in love and marriage? he wondered, a couple of petals coming away on his
fingers. Well at least I know he thought, ripping out pages, screwing them up
and burning them one by one in the fireplace. For a good while afterwards the
air smelt of sooty smoke and specks of ash smeared the tiled hearth.

Dialling through the stations on a radio Angie used for
background noise when painting, he caught a snatch of Roxy Music and thought he
should perhaps adopt their
In Every Dream Home A Heartache
as his personal anthem. With the lyrics buzzing
through his head, Nick turned the radio off, knowing that Mr. Ferry may not
have been writing about this sort of heartache, but he was correct in assuming
that each step he took would also take him further from heaven. Sitting back on
a leather armchair, closing his eyes he began to doze, coming around when the
doorbell went. Listening hard he heard Hawick’s clipped introduction followed
by one other voice as they were admitted. They ascended in single file, Nick
measuring the progress by each loose stair tread they hit. Then Hawick strutted
straight in followed by a thin woman in her thirties. Introducing herself as an
officer from the Service’s Internal Security Directorate, she advised Nick he
could call her Denise. Nick promised he would.

‘I bear the Service’s condolences,’ Hawick declared, ‘from the
Chief himself, all the way down.’

‘Everybody,’ Denise added needlessly, looking Nick up and down.

‘Thanks.’

‘Yes, well, good to see you’ve decided to return,’ Hawick began
after a rude interlude, struggling to find an approach. ‘This is jolly awkward
for us all you know. We have procedures to follow unfortunately,’ he said,
casting a glance to Denise halted midway across the room as she stared out of
the window.

Denise had chosen her best investigative outfit for the visit;
a charcoal grey business suit, dark tights and patent shoes with minimum heels
though none of it seemed to be cut to deal with personal tragedy. Her hair, not
a natural colour, was a mix of highlights that a senior stylist had shaped in
homage to Cleopatra.

‘I have been appointed to handle your case,’ Denise said,
taking up residence in a far corner half hidden in shadow.

Without effort or resistance Nick submitted, reaching a lazy
arm over the side of the chair he dragged up the bottle of Laphroaig, poured a
small measure and drowned it with water. Hawick mawkish as ever, watched
without a word as still the sorting and packing continued below. It took Nick
two attempts to clear his throat before he spoke.

‘I didn’t know I was a case?’

With no intention of surrendering his authority, Hawick took
responsibility for providing an answer. ‘The police have still not ruled out
that Angela and her… um… friend died as the result of a break-in that went
tragically wrong.’

‘Break-in?’ The severity in Nick’s voice took them by surprise.
‘How could it be a break-in when Angie’s boyfriend was shot in the head on the
front step?’

In her corner Denise gave an involuntary sigh, sensing her
moment at last. ‘Perhaps it is better to make Mr. Torr fully aware of his
position,’ she said to Hawick, her velveteen voice correct and exact, a
response to the hopelessness, to the chaos inflicted on the living by the dead.

Without the benefit of shadow, Hawick stranded in full view of
Nick, shook his wizened little head in disbelief. ‘Yes, well, I was on course
to do just that,’ objected Hawick. ‘The police, aware of your personal and
professional circumstances, have approached us to put a few further questions
to you.’

‘How long have you known your wife had a lover?’ Denise said,
from her shadowy corner, earning Hawick’s reproach with a sharp stare. ‘That
could be taken as a motive,’ she blithely added.

‘What?’ said Nick and Hawick in wonderful stereo, though for
completely different reasons.

Pouring himself another whisky Nick hardly bothered with the
water, taking a long pull, his outrage growing. For too many years he’d struggled
under the bureaucratic hammer attempting to tame his individual way of working;
blow after blow forging him on the Service’s mighty anvil – praise and
punishment, praise and punishment, praise and punishment – conform.

‘Very well,’ Hawick said with a diplomatic sigh. ‘From what I
can gather, the Murder Squad are reluctant to dismiss any angle at this stage.
I am aware, and sympathetic to the reasons why you may not feel inclined to
discuss this right now, but that doesn’t mean the issues will go away.’

‘Your mental health must be taken into consideration after
Moscow,’ Denise said, sailing merrily along. ‘Was your wife’s affair the last
straw?’ Her voice offered no hope.

They were conspiring against him. Nick sensed and felt it, saw
their ritual deceit brightening their eyes, the unspoken agreement and their
chosen pattern of closing him in, smothering him with bureaucracy.

‘
You
know what all this
is related to,’ Nick told Hawick, ‘You’d better put a stop to this bullshit.’

‘Are we expected to believe that Moscow was involved?’ Denise
said, the main assault under way.

Over Hawick’s shoulder Nick stared at low shreds of cloud
sweeping by the window, bringing rain or dusk he couldn’t tell.

‘And the ballistics?’ Nick asked, refilling his tumbler. ‘Normal
round was it that killed my wife’s lover?’

‘The round was something that common burglars would not have
access to,’ stated Denise.

‘But I would, that it?’ demanded Nick.

Clearly unsure on how to proceed, Denise emerged from her
corner, glanced at Hawick for approval, received it and shook the weight from
one foot to another.

‘Yes.’

In the street children played through the last of the day. Nick
closed his mind to their voices, their laughs and shouts. Down the hall,
someone ran water in the kitchen. He remembered the buckets and detergents at
the bottom of the stairs. ‘Blood everywhere,’ he’d heard Angie’s mother
complaining. Hawick circled the room, light and free on his feet, a moth
choosing its spot.

‘You’d better leave,’ Nick snapped. ‘I’ll discuss your issues
when I get a lawyer.’

Hawick reddened, his entire flimsy body arching.

‘Do you not think you’ve not had enough of that?’ He jabbed a
finger towards the whisky. ‘You’re strained Torr, we understand. But let’s not
forget that the police have to work on the facts and that is all they have.’

Too tired to argue, too weary to move from the chair, Nick’s
energy was reserved for lifting, pouring and drinking. He stared at Hawick. Why
do I hate you? Why do you pretend to care?

‘Try to see some sense,’ Hawick insisted, looming over him;
concerned, twisting his watch chain with long slim fingers.

Nick wanted to hit him hard, one punch, a blow he had developed
and perfected himself. Then the hate passed, leaving him weak.

‘You are doing yourself no credit,’ he added, bent over Nick,
his sickly breath warm and close. ‘This is all for your own good. I know how
you feel, but I strongly advise you to let the Service handle it.’

‘Handle a cover-up?’ Nick was on his feet, fired up, angry.
‘Pretend it didn’t happen to protect our reputation with the Americans, to stop
Downing Street and the FCO losing influence and allies?’

Already Denise recognised the futility of her mission, crossed
to the door, pulled on her gloves, putting each finger determinedly in; a woman
much used to paying great attention to small details.
                                     

‘I must firmly remind you, that you still have to go through
the formalities of a formal inquiry regarding your actions in Moscow. Just
because you didn’t turn up on Monday doesn’t mean the issues will be
overlooked. You are required to be at Aspley by eleven in the morning,’ Hawick
said, heading for the door. ‘Sober,’ he snapped and was gone, followed by
Denise who made a comment on psychological assessment on her way down the
stairs.

Grabbing the bottle of Laphroaig Nick hurled it after them,
though his aim was a touch off; a little too high, and the bottle exploded
against the wall above the door. Crunching through glass shards Nick went out
onto the landing, gripping the banister he yelled: ‘Out, everyone out. This is
still my house.’ All the way down the stairs he repeated his command at the top
of his voice, even obligingly holding open his front door as Angie’s mother
strutted out.

Unsteady on his feet, he rested his head on the doorframe its
coolness sinking into his temple, his mind pawing for something to say. Angie’s
father touched Nick’s shoulder on the way past but neither of them spoke. Armed
with his second watered down bottle of whisky, Nick took refuge in the room
facing the street, dragging a slashed chair to the window, giving him a view of
his path and front door. Having forgotten to bring a glass, he drank out of the
bottle and at some point he’d fallen asleep; for Nick woke suddenly with a jerk
when he heard his name being called, sweat covering his face, a thin film, cold
and sticky.

‘I’d heard you were back in town. I was just passing and
thought I’d drop in.’

Helpless and hating himself, Nick stared at Jane crouched by
his side. From the street a heavy infectious laugh streaked into the room,
reaching his brain like a sharp pain. His mind would not settle and a steady
cramp pulled at his belly. He wanted to be alone, he wanted peace, he wanted
noise and he wanted company. It is forgiveness and absolution what I need more
than anything, he thought. And his good friend Laphroaig of course, who could
always be relied upon to dull his appetite, to push another aspect of normality
far, far away.

‘Help yourself,’ Nick said, offering the bottle; a stiffening
inside his head, a weakness in his arms shaking the muscles in his hand.
Careful he thought, seeing Jane flinch.
          

‘What you need is a tea or a coffee,’ Jane said, taking the
whisky from him.

But Nick shook the suggestion away, bitter and weary.

‘Have one yourself, have it on the house,’ he said faking a
smile. ‘In fact you can have the house.’

‘Come and stay with me. It’s not going to do you any good sat
here all by yourself.’

‘I’m all right,’ he answered, feeling for the bottle unable to
comprehend where it had gone. ‘I’ve some things to sort out.’

Jane shook her head, pouring the whisky into a potted fig tree
reposing firm and tall in the corner. ‘You’ll kill it,’ he warned her, ‘But one
more death in this house isn’t going to matter.’

‘Is this how you’re going to make things right?’ Jane asked,
standing the drained bottle on the mantelpiece, coming back to his side,
sitting on the chair arm.