Three Brothers (12 page)

He picked up a neatly quartered piece. “You have some, too.”

“Oh no. It’s for you. Oh well, all right then. If you insist.” She bit into it while all the time keeping her eyes upon Sam. “What do you think of corned beef?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“I like it with pickle. Not that piccalilli muck. I can’t abide it. Just regular Branston. Next time I’ll bring you a pickled egg.”

“I’ve never seen a pickled egg.”

“It’s just an egg, really. They sell them in pubs.”

So began the friendship between Julie and Sam. He came on duty at five in the evening, and she finished work at six. She would come down with a “snack,” as she called it, and sit down beside him as he ate it. She began to confide in him. “He’s planning something.” “He” was Asher Ruppta. “He sits
very still and smells his fingers. I know the signs. Sometimes he whispers a word or two. As if he was praying.”

“What does he do?” Sam asked her on another evening, between mouthfuls of cold sausage sandwich.

“Now there’s a question. What doesn’t he do? He does this and he does that. Am I making myself clear? As clear as mud?”

“Perhaps it is mud.”

“You are a sharp one, aren’t you?” She was silent for a moment. “I think you’re right, actually. It is mud. Deep and dark. But you would never know it. It all looks good on paper.”

“I think there’s something going on,” she announced two weeks later. “He has been meeting people out of the office. He never does that. I’ve had to book him tables in restaurants.” She seemed excited by these events.

Sam now visited his mother two or three times a week, before setting off for his work. He mentioned Julie Armitage, and Sally laughed. “
That’s
a coincidence. I knew—” But when he spoke of Asher Ruppta, her eyes widened and she looked away. From that time forward she sometimes asked about Julie and her employer, in an indirect and only slightly curious way.

Sam saw Ruppta often enough. He would walk out of the lift at approximately the same time every evening, and pass the young nightwatchman on his way to the street. He was courteous, politely nodding to Sam before putting on the black Homburg hat that he always wore. Yet he rarely looked directly at him; whenever he did so, his hooded eyes seemed to flash with some inward fire. Sam then saw the spirit of Ruppta as a hawk or some other bird of prey. He thought that he had seen such a bird, perched on the roof of the building, its wings unfurled, but in a moment it was gone.

One evening a young man rang to enter the lobby. “I’m here to see Mr. Ruppta’s secretary,” he said. He looked at Sam curiously, as if trying to recall where he had met him.

“I’ll call her,” he said. “Can I give her your name?”

“Stanley Askisson.”

Julie came down with a small package wrapped in brown paper. She gave it to Stanley Askisson, who thanked her and walked out. Before he left the building, he stared once more at Sam.

“There’s something going on,” she said. It was her favourite phrase. “Do you fancy some pork scratchings? I’ll bring them down. There was money in that packet. Banknotes.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. Ruppy just told me—”

“Who?”

“That’s my secret name for you know who. Ruppy told me to give the money to someone called Askisson.”

“He seemed to know me. But then he didn’t know me.”

Stanley Askisson came back two weeks later, and waited in the lobby until he was given a package by Julie. “Do you know what?” she said to Sam as soon as Askisson had gone out into the street. “There’s no reference to him in any of the letters or papers. This is the problem. There is no mention of the money anywhere. It might as well be fairy gold.”

“Fairy gold?”

“It fades away.”

“But he won’t fade away, will he?”

“He could be a blackmailer. Is that what you’re thinking, Sam?” Julie put a great deal of faith in Sam’s sagacity; she interpreted his periods of silence and withdrawal as wisdom.

“Wait and see,” he replied.

“Next time I’m going to follow him. There’s something going on.”

“Won’t he mind?”

“Who?”

“Ruppta.”

“He won’t know anything about it.”

Stanley Askisson returned a fortnight later, by which time Sam and Julie had formulated a plan.

She left the package with Sam before slipping out into the street wearing a scarf and a nondescript beige coat. On Askisson’s arrival Sam gave him the package, with the excuse that Julie had left early for a dentist’s appointment. Askisson seemed surprised, but made no comment. Once more he looked at Sam curiously, as though he had known him in some other circumstance. He left the building and, as usual, turned right. Julie followed a short distance behind. She did not want to be seen, of course, but she need not have taken any great precaution. Askisson would not have known her. He never recognised the faces of young women.

Everyone became anonymous on Kingsway, a barren valley carved through the teeming alleys and lanes of nineteenth-century London. All the life of the neighbourhood had been laid waste by the clearance for this site, and none of it had returned. Stanley Askisson walked south towards Bush House before walking around the curve of Aldwych towards a bus stop on the south side of the Strand. The sky was blood-red with a fiery setting sun. Julie kept him in sight. When he boarded the 173 bus she followed him, sitting on the long seat close to the conductor’s platform.

Askisson left the bus at the stop halfway down Whitehall, where Julie also alighted. She followed him down Whitehall until he turned into the portal of one of the government departments. When Julie passed it, she saw that it was the Ministry of Housing. The next morning, before Ruppta arrived in the office, she telephoned the ministry and asked to speak to Stanley Askisson. He answered the ’phone in his customary manner. “Office of Cormac Webb.”

“Sorry. Wrong number.” Now she knew. Webb was a name familiar to her. Ever since she had shared an office with Hilda
Nugent, she had been aware of his connection with Ruppta. It seemed that the payments were still being made, indirectly through Askisson, and of course she suspected the nature of the bargain. What had happened to Hilda, by the way? She had telephoned one morning to say that she was ill, and had never returned to work. Ruppta had seemed preoccupied at the time, and so Julie never raised the matter with him.

She told Sam about her pursuit of Askisson. “Ruppy is giving money to Cormac Webb,” she said. “He wants something. Information.”

“Planning permission,” Sam replied. “He’s a property developer, isn’t he?”

“Don’t you think it’s
exciting
? I do.”

He had not considered it in that light. He had not really considered it in any light at all. But now he took more interest in Asher Ruppta. And Ruppta began to take more interest in him. He would stop at Sam’s desk, before leaving the building, and engage him in brief conversation. “How are you, Mr. Sam?” he would say. “Has Julie brought you anything nice today?” He was always watchful, somehow looking all around Sam as if searching for his shadow. Ruppta believed in the spirit world. He had been brought up by his mother on a small island of an archipelago in the Celebes Sea. And now he sensed something about Sam. He was not sure what it was, as yet, but there was a quality associated with the mystery that Ruppta had experienced as a child.

“He’s been asking after you,” Julie said to Sam one evening. She had just presented him with a sausage sandwich. “Tuck in. He thinks you’ve got promise. Potential.”

“Potential for what?”

“Fire bombing. No. I’m joking.”

On the following day Ruppta came up to Sam in the lobby. “You are a young man,” he said. “Do you want to sit behind a desk like this for ever? Is it right?” Sam shook his head. “I need
a smart young man. On my island, Sam, there were conjurors.
Aslohi
. They had assistants.
Mekini
. These assistants would help them with their tricks. They would climb up poles and disappear. They would rise into the air. They would fall into a trance. You can be one of my
mekini
.”

“How do I fall into a trance?”

“This will not be necessary. You can deliver little items from me. You can receive letters for me. Perhaps you will follow people. Who knows?” He was about to walk away, when he turned back to Sam. “On my island there were creatures you could not see and you could not hear. They hid in the green tapestry of the forest, in the humid air, in the great old rocks. Do you have such creatures in London, Sam?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“It is not a question of knowledge.”

So Sam became a courier, and messenger, for Asher Ruppta.

What is it?

H
ARRY
H
ANWAY
began to rise among the journalists of the
Chronicle
. He had become chief news reporter, and his byline now appeared on the front page almost daily. He had not forgotten about Cormac Webb; indeed he had kept all the material for possible use at a later date, but he had been willing to suppress the story at the request of Sir Martin Flaxman. This prompt and willing acquiescence recommended Harry to the proprietor of the
Chronicle
, who started to invite him to parties at his house in Cheyne Walk.

For the first time in his life Harry was being introduced to the powerful and to the merely famous. Most of them were cordial and self-deprecating, although Harry realised that success had made them so. It was extraordinary that they all knew, or professed to know, each other; a television presenter was on first-name terms with a businessman or a bishop. It seemed to Harry that, for them, the rest of the world did not really exist.

He began to understand, too, how alliances and affinities might be formed. Here was an admiral talking to a leading businessman; there was a politician talking to a pop star. Despite the air of bonhomie, what brought them all together was self-interest.

“They call me a muck-raker.” Sir Martin was talking to a
small group of people. “What’s wrong with raking muck? If you spread enough shit, something may begin to grow.” He laughed very loudly. “But you have to get the best journalists. Like Harry here. Most of them are arse-lickers. Tame poodles pretending to be guard dogs. But not Harry. He knows what he is. And he likes it.” The little group broke apart, aimlessly colliding with other little groups.

Harry stepped back, and found himself standing beside Cormac Webb. Webb looked at him without betraying any feeling. There had been a flash of recognition, and resentment, but this had been followed by an impassive expression; he was pretending not to remember him. “How are you, sir?” Harry asked him.

“Tremendous.” He smiled. “Nose to the grindstone.” He was oddly chastened. Harry noticed that there were white specks of dandruff on his dark pinstriped suit. He seemed shorter, and slighter, than Harry had remembered; he was more vulnerable, as if he had suffered some loss of power.

Sir Martin took Harry aside, put his arm around his shoulders, and whispered to him. “I’ve been told that Webb is about to retire. For personal reasons. No more use to me now. He won’t be coming here again.” Then he added, under his breath, “And here’s another cunt.” Harry looked up and saw a Conservative front-bench spokesman holding an animated conversation with an actress. “He wants to get into her knickers.” Sir Martin took Harry over to him. “Robin,” he said, “let me introduce you to Harry Hanway.” The actress walked away.

Robin Green concealed his annoyance very well. He had a smooth and well-oiled manner, with a delicate persuasive voice. “Delighted,” he said. When he smiled he showed his teeth.

“Harry’s my boy. He can sniff out secrets like a pig can scent truffles. Secrets smell. Do you have any secrets, Robin?”

“Alas no.” He did not look at Harry, but glanced in his direction. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I don’t believe you, Robin.” Sir Martin was as always very emphatic. “Every man has a secret.”

“And every woman, too,” Harry added.

“Is that so?” Sir Martin looked at him with amusement. “You must tell me about her some time.”

“Her?”

“I’m sure you had someone in mind.” Harry had been thinking of his mother. “You must meet my daughter, Harry. Guinevere! Guinevere! Come over here.”

A girl of nineteen or twenty reluctantly crossed the room. “I sent her to finishing school,” he told the two men. “I wanted her to become a toffee-nosed bitch and marry a millionaire.”

“Dad!”

“Now she wants to be a social worker. I told her to get a proper job.”

Harry was drawn to Guinevere. She had long dark hair, and large brown eyes; her lips were slightly parted, as if she were about to speak. For some reason Harry saw her swimming in the ocean. She was suspended in the bright blue water.

“Are you one of Dad’s attack dogs?” She was smiling.

“I’m probably a poodle.”

“But poodles can bite.”

“I am tame.” They looked at one other for a moment, held by the mutual gaze. “So you want to be a social worker?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I am not laughing. It’s a very good thing.”

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not. I promise you. I would hate to make fun of you.”

“Would you?” She looked at him with genuine gratitude. “That’s all Dad ever does. I don’t think he likes women.”

“I don’t think he likes anybody.”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this. What was your name again?”

“Harry.”

“The trouble with Harry.”

“What?”

“It’s a novel.”

“I never read novels.”

“Good for you.”

“I don’t see much point in them.”

“But you journalists write novels, don’t you? You call them stories. Dad is always going on about ‘good stories.’ ”

“It’s just a term,” he said.

“God, I hate these parties.” She looked quickly around the room. “Mum always stays in the country. She can’t stand his friends. She says that it’s a dance of death.”

“I can see why.”

“Do you know why I want to be a social worker? I want to get away from all this. Do you know how people are forced to live? One family in a room. No hot water.”