The Spanish Game (8 page)

‘But you’ve retired now?’

‘Of course.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is quite straight forward.’ Keen was still smiling, though with less conviction. ‘One is not supposed to talk about the Office. I’m sure you understand.’

‘So why did you tell Mark about it?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why did you tell Mark? To impress him?’

‘You’ve suddenly become rather confrontational, Benjamin. Did something happen while you were away? Is everything all right?’

‘Everything’s fine. And it’s “Ben”. I’m simply looking for an answer to my question. Did you thinkhe’d be impressed by what you’ve done with your life?’

‘I don’t quite understand.’

‘I mean, is that the vanity of the spy? Not enough adulation on the job? Nobody saying “Well done Christopher and keep up the good work”?’

And suddenly they were on the edge of an argument. Keen was desperate to preserve the dignity of the occasion and astonished by how quickly the evening had disintegrated into spite and ill-feeling. Unconsciously chewing his upper lip, he began looking around for a waiter. A two-deck sweet trolley was wheeled past and he followed it with his eyes, eventually settling them somewhere around Ben’s midriff.

‘Why don’t I ask you a question instead?’ he suggested. ‘Far more interesting, I would have thought. Mark’s been rather vague about your painting.’

‘My painting,’ Ben replied flatly, as if Keen thought of it as no more than a hobby. He was now enjoyably committed to making the meal as difficult as possible.

‘Yes. Your painting.’

‘Vague?’

‘Vague.’

He feigned disinterest.

‘Well, brother can be a bit philistine when it comes to art. Might take a girl to the Turner Prize, but that’s about it.’

Keen laughed self-consciously, as if they had shared a private joke, but he felt increasingly undermined, his plan unravelling. Why had they arranged to meet in the Savoy? What had he been thinking? That a surfeit of Italian marble and silver service would somehow paper over the cracks of his past mistakes? Ben had been nervous at first, of course, but he was settled now, and itching for the fight. His temperament was exactly as Mark had described it: wounded, blunt, argumentative.

‘What sort of stuff do you paint?’ he asked, and felt that the question might be his last opportunity to maintain a civilized air of polite enquiry.

‘Do you really care?’ Ben replied. ‘Or are we just making small talk?’

For the first time he managed to hold his father’s gaze. One beat, two. Keen, now visibly unsettled, put his glass down and frowned.

‘Perhaps this was a bad idea,’ he said.

‘You think?’

‘I really don’t understand what’s brought this on.’

An elderly man at a nearby table cast Keen a disapproving look, alerted by the suddenly aggressive tone of their conversation.

‘Just traditional stuff,’ Ben said, and it was a moment before Keen realized that he was talking about painting. He felt almost ridiculed, toyed with. ‘Watercolours. Sketches. Oil paintings. The sort of work that’s out of fashion nowadays.’

Two more waiters appeared and began ladling soup into bowls at a serving table beside them. For some time nothing was said except a very quiet ‘Thank you’ from Keen as his bisque was placed in front of him. Then they ate in silence for as much as two or three minutes. Ben’s pulse was a drum of adrenalin as Keen’s consternation settled. Eventually, he found a fresh subject and tested new ground.

‘So you’re married,’ he asked.

Ben nodded.

‘How long ago, if I may ask?’

‘A couple of years.’

‘And you met here in London?’

These were questions to which he already knew the answer, and the curt manner of Ben’s reply implied as much.

‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘She’s very pretty.’

‘Is that a statement or a question?’

Keen took a deep breath.

‘A statement.’

‘Who told you? Brother?’

‘Mark, yes.’

Ben wondered what else he had revealed about their relationship.
Alice is tricky
.
Alice is ambitious and manipulating
. He knew that Mark had his reservations about her, however well he tried to disguise them. Odd that they should be so close and yet labour under such an obvious pretence. Perhaps Mark had also mentioned something about the constant arguments, the money, a marriage turning sour.

‘So what else did he say about her?’

‘That she’s a writer. A journalist of sorts.’

‘For the
Standard
, yes.’

‘Actually, he gave me a photograph of your wedding day.’

The revelation hit Ben with the full force of betrayal. He was not even conscious of the speed with which his temper flared.

‘He did
what
?’

Keen realized instantly that he had made a mistake.

‘I have it hanging in my flat,’ he said, feigning innocence. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘You had no right to take that.’

‘It was a present.’

‘It was an invasion of our privacy.’

‘Well, I think you’re over-reacting. It looked like the most wonderful day. There’s really no need to be upset.’

Several heads now turned to lookat Ben, yet he was aware of nothing but his own anger. Every promise he had made to Mark and Alice, every private undertaking to give his father a second chance, had evaporated.

‘You think you have any right to
tell
me that?’

‘Mark informed me that he’d asked your permission.’

‘Oh, come off it. You trying to play us off against each other? Is that how this works? Divide and rule? You think that by making me angry with Mark I’ll somehow come over to your side?’

The thought had occurred to Keen, but he said, ‘Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,’ with as much credibility as he could muster. Flushed now with the awkwardness of a very public row, he searched for a means of salvaging what was in all probability a lost cause. Mark had been biddable and eager to please, as accommodating and straight forward as his mother. But Ben was a different proposition. Looking across the table at his son, Keen might almost have been faced with himself.

‘I don’t know what exactly it was that you were expecting from me this evening.’

Ben looked at him, almost breathless in the wake of his outburst, and realized that he did not know either. He was sure only that their reconciliation had come too soon, or that Mark should have accompanied him to dilute the awful sense of occasion. He wanted very much to leave, to go back to his old life, to the simplicity of the abandoned child. And yet in the square just a few nights before he had been so sure, and really only waiting for Mark to provide him with the excuse he needed to reach out and take the step. His mind was a cross-hatch of contradictory emotions: of loyalty to Carolyn; of anger at himself for lacking the maturity and good sense merely to sit the evening out; of frustration at Mark for betraying his trust. Most oddly perhaps, he felt affection towards Keen for craving a simple photograph of his wedding day. There was love contained in such a gesture: perhaps that, above all, was what had upset him.

For five minutes they ate their soup without saying a word, until Ben could no longer stomach the awful metal silence of cutlery and glass. With the conviction of a man seemingly faced with no other choice, he pushed his bowl to one side and cleared his throat.

‘You know, I just think I’m going to have to go,’ he said, and Keen seemed to have expected it.

Calmly, he picked up his napkin, wiped the corners of his mouth and with a slow, physical deliberation said, ‘Fine, yes, I think that’s a good idea. I can understand that this has been very difficult for you. I invited you here this evening because I hoped that…’

But Ben did not even hear him finish. He rose from the table, took his jacket from the chair and walked the short distance to the lobby. Eyes followed him; there were murmured expressions of surprise. His entire body felt hot with shame and regret as he pushed through the revolving doors and went out on to the street.

15

Mark was lying on the hard, starched bed of his Moscow hotel room, nursing a stomach cramp brought on by two days of cheap Georgian wine and deep-fried meats. Thomas Macklin was downstairs in the lobby cracking jokes with an entourage of deal-hungry Russians wearing badly cut suits and explosive aftershave. Neither of them had any idea of the where abouts of Sebastian Roth.

Ben telephoned him from a booth outside Charing Cross Station. At first Mark thought about ignoring the call, but he had given his number to a good-looking French television journalist whose eyes had worked him over at a bar on Tverskaya. There was just the faint possibility that it might be her, bored and lonely on another cold night in Moscow. He cleared his voice by saying ‘Telephone’ into the room and moved off the bed. His body felt slow and lumpen, a searing pain across his abdomen when his feet touched the floor.

‘Yes? Hello?’

‘I fucked up.’

His brother’s voice was so clear he might have been speaking from the next room.

‘Ben?’

‘I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t sit there and listen to his bullshit. I didn’t have the patience just to ride it out and let everything take its course.’

Mark rubbed his face.

‘What happened? You went to the dinner?’

‘Yeah. Lost my rag. Flew at him. Why d’you give him the photograph, brother? Why d’you do that?’

Dissembled by fatigue, Mark rubbed his head and said, ‘He told you about that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It was just a present, a way of showing him…’

He heard Ben sigh deeply, then the noise of passengers going into the station.

‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘Look, don’t worry. It’s not important. I just needed to talkto you. I think I would have walked out whatever.’

‘What happened?’ Mark asked again.

‘Nothing. Everything. He was confident, tricky. I never felt comfortable. So I got upset, started asking awkward questions, putting him on the spot. I don’t know why I did it, Mark. I never felt comfortable letting Mum down.’

‘Sure. Sure.’

‘It was like I was just looking for an excuse to lose my temper. You know how I can do that?’

‘I know how you can do that,’ Mark said softly.

‘I mean, I’m not looking for a fight, but sometimes…’

‘I know. I know.’

Ben stopped talking. He was dimly aware of the piss and grime of Charing Cross Station. He fed the last of his coins into the payphone and said, ‘Look, I’m almost out of money. How’s Moscow?’

‘Don’t worry about Moscow.’ ‘Just go home. Is Alice there? We can talk from your house.’

‘No. In the morning.’ A woman walked past Ben with snow on the shoulders of her coat. ‘Call me when we both know what we’re saying. It sounds like you were asleep anyway. I didn’t mean to wake you up.’

Mark rolled his neck until it clicked.

‘You didn’t wake me up,’ he said. ‘I was just lying here. It’s been a long day. Look, I’m sorry it didn’t workout. Maybe we shouldn’t have forced you into it. It just seemed the best thing to do.’

‘It was the best thing to do, it was,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’

16

Christopher Keen emerged from the Savoy and squeezed a smile at the doorman as snow began twisting into the forecourt. A cab pulled up and he stepped inside, instructing the driver to take him to his flat in Paddington. It was not yet ten o’clockbut he felt dejected and worn out.

The driver said, ‘Enjoyable evening, sir?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Dodgy meal, was it? I have heard, sir, that The Grill is not quite what it used to be. You know, in the old days.’

‘It wasn’t the food,’ Keen replied tersely.

‘I see.’

It took more than half an hour to reach Paddington, thirty minutes of regret and silent reflection. The snow began falling more heavily, coating the streets in a thin viscous film of grey slush. Keen was still surprised by how much of the basic geography of London he recalled: short cuts, obscure streets, the facade of a fondly remembered building. Nothing about England ever changes, he thought. There are just more cars on the roads, more people and litter in the streets. He considered stopping off at his club in St James’s, but his mood was too bleak and forlorn. When the driver reached the entrance to his apartment, Keen tipped him three pounds and grimaced at the freezing wind. Tightening his scarf, he walked up the steps to the foyer and rode the lift to the fourth floor.

Inside the flat he noted the packet of coffee that he had spilt in the kitchen that morning and decided to leave it for another day. He was still hungry from not eating and cut himself a slice of cheese, taking several cubes of ice from the freezer and dropping them into a tumbler of whisky. In the small sitting room next door, he sat down in his favourite armchair and rested the glass on a low antique table. There, on the wall, was the photograph of Ben’s wedding, and Keen thought for a moment about smashing it on the floor, a crude, adolescent gesture against everything that had gone wrong. Instead he would drinkhis whisky, perhaps watch television, and then try to get some sleep. Mark might even telephone from Moscow to find out how things had gone. Keen did not have the will to call him of his own volition, but the thought reminded him to contact Taploe. Going back into the kitchen he pulled a pad of Post-it notes from a drawer and scrawled
Call Taploe re: M
across the top copy. Then, having fixed it to the frame of the door, he returned to the sitting room and switched on the television news.

17

When the policewoman came to Ben’s house, six hours later, it was after four o’clockin the morning and yet he was still awake, sitting at the kitchen table reading an article Alice had written for that evening’s edition of the
Standard
.

She had been asleep since midnight or thereabouts, tired out by workand conversation. For a while Ben had laid beside her, trying to let the day slip past him, but his mind kept turning over events at the Savoy and after an hour he had given up, dressed again and come downstairs.

His insomnia was not infrequent. Ben and Alice kept different hours and he had begun to feel separated from her when they were in bed together. When the lights went out, all the cuddled intimacy of their first years had been somehow lost; to careers, to age, to some misplaced idea of how a marriage should be. And yet he liked the anonymity afforded by night; so much of his life was given over to the idea of making Alice happy that Ben was glad to have just a few hours to himself. Often he would read a book or watch a film on television, sometimes go for a drive or seek out a late-night bar. It balanced things out: those quiet hours when Alice was asleep belonged to him and to him alone. Ben had no office to go to in the morning, no responsibility to anyone but himself: he could wake up with a hangover at eleven in the morning and still put in a good day’s workin the studio.

He was nearing the end of the article when the doorbell rang, the sound of it shaking him out of an almost hypnotic concentration. Ben stood up and the newspaper fell to the floor. He assumed that it was one of his friends leaving drunk from a club, coked up to the eyeballs and coming round for a nightcap. As long as they didn’t ring the bell again, there was a chance that Alice would not wake up.

‘Who is it?’ he asked as he reached the door, keeping his voice deliberately low. It occurred to him that somebody might have simply pressed the bell as a prank and then run away.

‘The police, sir.’ It was a woman’s voice, measured and serious. ‘Could I come in?’

Ben’s first thought was that something had happened to Mark. A car accident in Moscow. A mugging. And, as he quickly unhooked the chain, he saw that the face of the woman on the other side of the door had prepared itself for delivering bad news. Her hair was tied up under a flat hat and her eyes seemed robbed of colour.

She said, ‘I’m sorry to come round so late, sir.’

‘Is everything all right?’

Please. Not Mark. Just tell me that Mark’s OK.

‘I have to ask, sir. Does a Mr Benjamin Keen live here?’

‘I’m Benjamin Keen,’ Ben said quickly. ‘Is it Mark? Has something happened to my brother?’

‘No. It’s not your brother, sir. We couldn’t find him.’

He felt a wave of relief that was short lived.
Couldn’t find him?
So was it a friend, somebody close to the family who had been hurt, even killed? Ben ran through a checklist of names: Alice’s parents; Joe or Natalie; his oldest friend, Alex, who was on holiday in Spain. At no point did it occur to him that something might have happened to his father.

The policewoman asked again if she could come in and they went inside to the kitchen. She was wearing a fluorescent waterproof jacket that rustled as she sat down. Away from the flared light of the doorstep her face looked darker, prettier, but no less disconcerted. Ben saw that she was younger than he was by at least four years and that whatever it was she had been asked to tell him, she had never had to do it before.

‘You said that you couldn’t find Mark.’

‘That’s right.’ Her voice was very quiet and she could barely lookat him.

Ben began to ask another question, as if that would hold off the bad news, but she interrupted him.

‘There’s no easy way for me to tell you this, so I’m just going to come out and say it…’

‘Yes…’

‘I’m afraid it’s some news about your father, Benjamin.’ When she used his first name he felt that he was going to be sick. ‘He’s been involved in an incident. He was found dead at his flat two hours ago.’

The news was simply a freak, a sick joke. Ben took several seconds to clear his head of what seemed like a wall of noise.

‘My father? But I had dinner with him tonight.’

For a moment the policewoman did not respond, but in time she said simply, ‘I am so sorry.’

Six months before, three weeks even, she could have walked in here and given him this news and his reaction would have been quite different. Not dismissive exactly, not unfeeling, but certainly less traumatized. Anything she might have told Ben would have been prior to his new experience: the reunion, the first failed steps towards reconciliation. But he was now locked into a new set of feelings towards his father, forever altered by the events of just a few hours before.

‘Are you sure about this?’ he said, and felt foolish for asking. ‘I just don’t understand. I had dinner with him tonight for the first time in twenty-five years. At the Savoy.
Tonight
.’

‘You hadn’t seen your father for that long?’

‘For the first time, yes. This is just ridiculous…’

‘I can understand how difficult it must be for you…’

‘You said you couldn’t find Mark? I spoke to him after dinner on the phone. He’s in Moscow. What happened? You said there was an “incident”. What does that mean?’

They were the first questions that had come into his mind, panicked sentences emerging from an absolute confusion. Ben had a sense that he had been robbed at a critical moment. When his mother was dying, in his early twenties, his whole life had seemed scarred by absurd bad luck; that feeling was suddenly apparent all over again.

‘We’re not very sure at this juncture, Benjamin.’ She kept using his first name. Was that what they were trained to do? ‘There appears to have been an intruder at your father’s flat.’

‘He was killed?’

The policewoman brought the sleeve of the waterproof jacket close to her face. That sound again. The whistle of the material. Then she was nodding slowly, eyes shuttling from one corner of the room to the other.

‘I have to tell you that he was shot.’

Ben appeared to freeze. The policewoman could think of nothing to say. He merely repeated the word ‘Shot?’ as his mouth slackened with dismay.

‘What I can do is arrange to come and pick you up in the morning and we can…’

But Ben was not hearing her. He had some basic sense of how hard it must have been to come to his house, to break news of this kind, a thing she would have to live with for the rest of her career. But he was now completely alone with his brother, orphaned, and that sudden realization consumed him.

‘… One of the things we do is to appoint a Family Liaison Officer who can provide a designated point of contact with -‘

Ben raised his hand. He was shaking his head. He looked across the table. The policewoman’s lips were pushed out and creased and she was speaking as if from a handbook. Yet her sympathetic expression was more than mere professional courtesy: she seemed genuinely upset.

‘Would you like someone to stay with you?’ she asked.

‘I have my wife upstairs,’ Ben said, and for the first time felt that he was on the verge of tears.

‘I see.’

She hesitated. There was something else she was obliged to add.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘I’m afraid we will need somebody to identify the body. As soon as possible. In your brother’s absence, Benjamin, it’s my understanding that you would be the next of kin. Do you think…?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to come now?’

Again she paused. Edging round his confusion.

‘It would probably be better if you stayed away from the scene for the time being…’

‘I don’t even know where he lives.’

She looked astonished by this.

‘Mark knows. I hadn’t met my father until…’

‘Yes.’ The policewoman’s voice was quiet. She told him that he had lived near Paddington Station and wrote down the address.

‘So why don’t you try to get some sleep?’ she suggested. ‘Or perhaps let your wife know.’

‘Yes.’

She began to stand up. He could sense her relief at leaving.

‘I think it’s best that I go,’ she said. ‘Will you be all right?’

And Ben nodded.

‘We can send a car for both of you in the morning.’

‘That sounds fine.’ His mind was adrift with consequence. He was thinking about breaking the news to Mark, to Alice, and heard the policewoman say ‘Sorry’ as she walked down the steps. When she was no longer visible on the road he closed the front door and then climbed the stairs.

Their bedroom was stuffy, a smell of stale air and cigarette smoke woven into fabrics. He picked up the hot, sweet drift of Alice asleep, a curious blend of perfumes and sweat. Ben crossed the room and opened a window on to the street. Birdsong. Behind him, he heard Alice moan, an impatient sound. She turned over on to her side, exhaling heavily, and he felt reprimanded even from the depths of her sleep. He had been on the point of shaking her awake but something about her impatience made him hesitate. Why do it? Instinctively he did not want Alice to have any part in this. If he woke her, she would complain; as he told her, she would become confused. To involve her now would only complicate matters. He would have to take her feelings into account and, for once, he wanted to act without interference. Ben felt that she might even appropriate the grief for herself, that his father’s murder might become something that he would have to comfort
her
over, rather than the other way round. She had a habit of doing that, of switching things around, of giving them a cynical emphasis. It was a part of her selfishness.

The room was much cooler now, fresh air from the open window. Ben went back out on to the landing, closed the door, and felt for the car key in his pocket.