Dark Clouds (4 page)

Chapter 3

It’s after six when a police driver takes me back to Islington. I feel like I’ve been conscripted into service for my country. The path ahead is clear, but if I even think about slipping off course, I’ll be taken into custody and court-martialled for consorting with the enemy.

My laptop and house computer have been returned with their hard disks intact and a team of Home Office contractors have fixed the locks on my front door. There are still fragments of a broken vase with withering chrysanthemums in the hallway and I’ve got a few phone messages asking: ‘
Where are you? Will you call for Christ’s sake
’ and ‘
Hey – what the fuck are we paying you for, man?
’

I try my Kashmiri contact Rashid Kumar, but he’s not picking up. There’s an invitation from Daisy Glover that’s fallen off the mantelpiece and into the fireplace. Can I go to her do this evening on the other side of the square? I don’t think so. I’m exhausted; I’ve got to try and get into the frame for Miss Hirsch of Homeland Security and I’m thinking of an early night with an old movie when the doorbell rings.

Is it Earl again ... or the bad guys? I’m imagining bearded Taliban supporters from Pakistan as I glance through the living room window. But it’s my neighbour, Fiona Adler, and she’s not giving up on the bell.

‘Rudi – oh my god … are you all right?’ she asks when I let her in. ‘You look awful … Phillida said that the police broke down your front door … is this true?’

She’s embracing me with a great emotional cloak. She then brushes my cheeks, and when we’ve disengaged, I tell her I’m fine and that the armed police raid was all down to mistaken identity.

‘They thought I was a City fraudster,’ I explain, ‘but they fixed the door.’

Fiona’s shaking her head and saying how everyone in the square’s been texting her about what happened. She runs a couple of women’s magazines and she came more or less as part of my house-swap deal with Harry the writer.

‘You need someone to take you in hand,’ she says when I offer her a cup of tea. ‘I don’t believe you’re eating properly. You’ve got to get the colour back in your cheeks.’

‘Sure,’ I say wistfully. I often fantasise about a loving partner and kids: Adorable little pranksters, who’ll pull at my leg and demand that we take off to play in a park. Only now I’ve got Osama standing like Christ on a hill and as he smiles an aide detonates a nuclear device.

‘So you’re coming to Daisy’s do?’

‘Well – ’

‘It’s already started, Rudi.’

I feel uneasy about socialising.

‘I’m going to Geneva in the morning,’ I tell Julia. ‘I’ve got to get my stuff sorted.’

I need to iron a shirt and check my underwear, but my neighbour’s not giving up.

‘Come on, for goodness sake! This really won’t do,’ she exclaims. ‘There’ll be a great crowd. You have to stop hiding yourself away like this, Rudi. You’ve got to take the plunge again sometime … so it’s out there now, and into the market place – OK?’

‘Right – ’

‘And you’ll thank me if it means you end up with someone you can get along with.’

Fiona is a very presentable early forties divorcee. She doesn’t have any children and claims it’s mainly because she’s married to her work as a magazine publisher. She enjoys matchmaking with her friends though, and I know I can’t put up too much serious resistance.

‘OK – ’ I tell her.

‘With me, now?’

‘Sure – in a minute.’

‘Excellent … because you are quite eligible you know.’

‘How come?’

‘Well … you’re unmarried, in your early thirties with reasonable career prospects. You don’t look too bad, although your wardrobe needs attention and you could be more of a catch if you did some serious exercise. Your sense of humour’s a bit slow, but you listen after a fashion, and you don’t seem to have any tediously off putting habits.’

‘Thanks, Julia.’

‘No – I’m serious. And there is at the moment a disgraceful surfeit of bright and beautiful girls. They’re all dying to meet a decent chap with whom they can spend quality time. So bestir yourself, sir – shake up a few hearts!’

I have occasionally thought of Fiona as a woman. I like her rich dark hair and her commanding presence. Once or twice in the early morning I have fantasised about a seductive interlude, but right now I’ve got Carla Hirsch raising her eyebrows and the message is clear:
Get your priorities into line, fellah ...you’re on duty in the morning, and there’s a lot at stake.

*  *  *  *  *

There are pretty lights twinkling in the double-fronted Glover house on the other side of the square. It’s very inviting, and there’s an endless stream of cabs dropping off savvy metropolitans for the media columnist’s party of choice tonight in London Town.

The elegant and flamboyant Daisy laughs and shimmies to evocative salsa tunes. She’s hired a Brazilian quartet for the evening and she hugs Fiona and myself when we arrive.

‘It’s so good to see you both,’ she trills. ‘But Julia, darling, I want you to meet Simon who’s off on a most exciting expedition to Sumatra. There’s a splendid lead piece for you in the making here, I’m sure you’ll agree … and we must speak later, Rudi, about what’s happening in Iran. It’s all rather worrying there at the moment.’

I agree. Armadinejad is crazy. I can see him on the phone to Kim Jong-il in North Korea and they’ve both got connections with Abdul Qadeer Khan, the renegade Pakistani nuclear scientist who nodded like he understood and then assured Libya’s Muammar al-Gaddafi that putting a serious radiation message into a suitcase wasn’t a problem.

I’m blinking into the multicoloured beam of a strobe light with these thoughts, and when Fiona and Daisy disappear, I edge over towards the music in a huge conservatory that leads into the garden.

‘Do you fancy a cocktail, sir?’ a pink-haired catering assistant asks.

She has a warm smile behind the mascara and rouge and she’s carrying a huge tray of exotic looking drinks. I’m unsure about what’s in each glass, but I eventually go for something dark and fruity with a silver umbrella stick.

‘It’s a popular choice,’ the girl tells me.

I’m rather taken with her and we’re about to bat and ball on the party catering business when a vaguely familiar UK Government adviser appears.

‘Flynn – isn’t it?’

‘Yes … and – ’

‘Silverman – Jeremy. We met at a Muslim do in Oxford. You must remember, surely … there wasn’t any fucking booze and we all had to take our shoes off at the front door!’

‘Right – ’

‘And I suppose it’s still tricky for you now … what with Iran and being an American in London – or indeed almost anywhere, I’d imagine.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask. I’m slow this evening, and I’m immediately regretting it.

‘Well – it’s the way your Government is perceived,’ Silverman says. ‘Especially now with the latest reports we’re getting about you flying people around the world and cutting off their balls as you go. Extraordinary rendition … now there’s an interesting concept, ey!’

Ideally, I’d tie this guy onto the back of a camel and tow him across a desert until his ass caught fire and he begged my President to forgive his gratuitous flippancy. He’s already grinning inanely, however, and waving at a frequently quoted diary writer.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he yelps. ‘But it would be good to meet and talk properly, Rudi … perhaps next week in Whitehall.’

Sure – why not, if I’m still here. Fiona Adler’s deep in discussions with Simon about his up-coming trip to Sumatra. They’re surrounded by glamorous magazine and media people at one end of Daisy Glover’s vast living room. I’m wondering if I should join them. I do need to get out a bit more, but when I step back to avoid a canapé tray, I stand on the foot of a beautiful woman. She has pale blue eyes and perfect blonde hair that falls enticingly around smooth shoulders and an eye-catching dress. I’m flushed with embarrassment and as my mouth opens, I’m spilling most of my cocktail onto the expensive parquet floor.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ she answers with an amused smile. ‘And I am Ingrid.’

I’m intrigued by her Nordic accent and I’m immediately thinking of fiords, Abba and clean streets. We swap a few pleasantries about Daisy’s do, Fiona Adler and the music, which she likes. She then tells me she’s a painter from Norway and that she’s starting to work with stone and metal.

‘I have a studio in Dalston,’ she says, waving at a long haired guy, who clearly fancies her, ‘and one of Fiona Adler’s magazines recently did a feature on my work. ‘It was really helpful … but what about you, Rudi? What are you doing in London?’

*  *  *  *  *

I desperately need to escape, even if it’s only for half an hour, and there haven’t been many occasions recently when it’s all flowed out spontaneously with an attractive woman, so I’m a little wary. Ingrid is good with people though. One gets all of her attention, and when we’ve taken glasses of fruit juice from a Polish boy, I tell her that I’m a journalist in London but that most of my stuff goes to the States.

‘And you enjoy this media life?’ she asks with a mischievous smile.

Not at the moment, if I’m honest. The state of the world is getting to me. So much so, I tell Ingrid, that I’ve taken to jotting down notes about the Irish side of my family whenever I’m sitting in cafes or waiting around for people I’m meant to be interviewing.

‘I like the Irish,’ Ingrid says, and I’m getting off on the splendid state of her teeth. ‘They have got a lot of passion … but they also enjoy much alcohol.’

It’s true. I’ve spent time recently trying to mentally counterbalance my feckless Irish connections with a sensible Jewish great aunt, who, I gather, read the Torah every day. There is also, according to my mother, a god-fearing Presbyterian from the Scottish Highlands, who fathered at least one of my ancestors. For now though, I’m with the Fenians, and I’m homing in for Ingrid on my great grandmother, who joined the Catholic Irish rebels when her Protestant lover was packed off to Australia.

‘This is what you should be writing about,’ Ingrid says, and I’m hooked. I’m over the edge and falling irrevocably for a gorgeous Scandinavian who’s slipped into my Fenian fairy tale.

‘Would you like to dance?’ I ask impulsively. She’s surprised; her eyes open wide.

‘Now – here … with the salsa?’

‘Sure, why not – ’

The Brazilians have taken over in the conservatory where svelte hips are swivelling. There’s a lot of sex in the Latino vibe even though the setting’s a little unusual. I’m imagining Daisy out here on Sunday mornings with hubby, Bill. They’re going through the newspaper supplements and maybe speculating about what’s happening with their independent kids.

Ingrid’s really into salsa though. She’s a natural and we’re moving like a pro duo. It’s exciting, and soon we’re getting sideways glances from other guests. They’re drawn in by the music and all of the hot fantasy stuff that goes with the cool Latino beat.  

 ‘Are you interested in painting or sculpture?’ Ingrid asks as our butts and feet get synchronised.

‘Definitely … I enjoy going to galleries.’

‘So you might like see my work?’

Absolutely. I’d love to … but hey, am I dreaming or is something happening here?

‘I have an exhibition at Newcastle in the North of England,’ she says between twirls. ‘Do you know this place?’

I haven’t been anywhere outside London since I arrived in the UK. But holding Ingrid’s fingers and touching her hand as we move, my inhibitions are disappearing. I’m getting hooked on the whole idea of Nordic art along with mythical banshees in West Cork.

‘So where’s Dalston?’ I ask, trying to place her studio.

‘It is in Hackney,’ she says, ‘and it’s very basic. But I have a big space in a warehouse for not too much money … and I am surrounded by Turks and Kurds. It’s all very macho, but reassuring.’

She laughs at this and I’m thinking of marauding Scandinavians who arrived long ago to beat hell out of the Brits and quite a few Celts. Am I out of my league here, I wonder? I’m glancing up through the glass roof of the conservatory as the tempo quickens. There’s a cloud, and I’m catching a familiar face amongst the stars. It’s pale and quite far away, but Faria Bailey’s dark eyes are twinkling, and she waves as she floats away.

‘I have to go, Rudi,’ Ingrid says when the Brazilians stop for a break, and it’s like someone’s just burst my party balloon.

‘Ah … right – ’

‘I’d rather stay, but it is my agent … she wants to see me in Docklands. There is a Russian, I think, with many roubles who may make me a commission.’

‘Of course – ’

‘So – for now is ciao … but I give you this.’ She’s writing her phone number on a piece of red tissue paper from a table decoration. I’m feeling good again, and when she passes me the tissue paper, her fingers brush fleetingly against the back of my hand.

*  *  *  *  *

I want to go on talking and dancing with her, but my phone’s ringing and as I answer it, she blows me a kiss and leaves.

‘Rudi?’ a familiar voice asks.

‘Sulima ... you got my message?’

‘Yes – I’ll meet you at the airport. We’re so glad you’re coming ... and you must stay with us.’

Is this woman’s brother funding an al-Qaeda cell with nuclear intentions? It’s difficult to believe, and I’m having to clench my free hand as we do a couple of pleasantries.

‘So we’ll see you tomorrow,’ she says finally with warm enthusiasm like I’m an old friend, which of course I am.

*  *  *  *  *

‘Ingrid is lovely,’ Fiona Adler confides when I join her. ‘But she’s totally committed to her art, Rudi, and there are lots of other fabulous girls here this evening.’ She’s pointing over towards a cool and confident looking young woman who’s talking with Daisy’s TV producer husband, Bill. ‘That’s Carol,’ Fiona confides. ‘She’s quite exceptional, and definitely a rising star in TV fashion. The thing is though, she’s had a difficult period emotionally in recent months, so I’d ask you to be considerate … as I’m sure you always are.’

‘But – ’

‘Never mind the reticence; you are required to be bold. Delicate flowers yearn for a firm hand, and this girl needs her confidence boosting,’ Fiona insists. She’s on a mission. But then she stops and swears with subdued frustration.