Doctor Gavrilov (5 page)

Rozanov suddenly began to laugh, a strange, muffled laughter which made his shoulders shake and seem to agitate his whole body. Dmitry looked over his shoulder but nobody seemed interested in them. Rozanov's laughter grew louder and more unpleasant; Dmitry leapt up from the table. ‘What's so funny?' he demanded.

Rozanov didn't answer. Tears of laughter ran down his cheeks and he dabbed at them with his napkin. Dmitry could not believe it; he thought he had gone mad. He felt that he had been conned into the whole conversation by some madman or trickster; he was beside himself with rage. He took out his wallet, not wanting to be indebted to this man in any way, found to his embarrassment that it only contained five pounds, flung the note and some small change down on the table, and rushed out into the fresh air.

It had stopped raining. As he walked up the road the sun unexpectedly came out. A bright bar of light streamed across the street, but by some curious illusion he saw only the dark shadows it cast, like inky pools. He realised he was shaking. He wondered if he was cold, or if he was ill, perhaps going down with the flu, or whether it was another migraine coming on. He thought, what is the matter with me? Why should I let this man upset me so? Whoever he is, whatever he's up to, he can't really touch me. All I have to do is say no.

He looked at his watch. It was later than he thought; already after seven. The sun, which had come out from beneath a dark bank of cloud, was sinking behind the buildings in the west. He went to the bus stop. He thought, for a moment, as he stood and waited, of going home and confessing to Katie everything that was in his mind; his failed ambitions, his powerlessness in exile, his sense of isolation, the encounter with Rozanov and with the man in the park, his own precarious mental state; but he knew he would never do it. It would make her afraid, and it would admit too much weakness in himself, and he knew she depended on him, believed in him.

The meal had delayed him and he was again home much later than he had promised and intended. He opened the door; the living room was in darkness. Katie and the children were upstairs; he could hear the sounds of splashing in the bath and Anna's carefree laughter. He deliberately shut the door quietly and crept into the living room; he sat down on the sofa, on the side which didn't have so deep a hole in it, and leaned his head backwards, staring at the ceiling. He could hear Katie trying to persuade Anna to get out of the bath.

‘I don't understand,' he could hear Katie's voice, exasperated. ‘First you don't want to get in, and now you don't want to get out. All right, stay there and get cold if you want to.' Dmitry knew he should go upstairs and help her, but he couldn't do it; these days he rarely did.

Now he could hear the baby crying. Dmitry stood up and crossed the room, poured himself some stale, cold tea from the tea-pot on the table and looked to see if there had been any mail. There were three letters for him. He put on the lamp, trained it over the table and opened the first letter. In it was a small blank card, on which was written in untidy writing, Aziz Hattab, and a phone number.

Now that he was away from Rozanov it all seemed quite clear; he wouldn't have anything to do with this. He opened the second letter and stood there, frowning. He read through it quickly and was surprised to find that he didn't feel anything. Billennium, the publisher for whom he was translating the book, had gone into receivership. Two or three pages of details of meetings for creditors followed… he read the small print. He couldn't grasp it all but one thing was clear; he wasn't going to be paid.

The third was a letter inviting him to an appointment with the bank manager.

He looked up suddenly. Anna was scampering down the stairs. She said, ‘Mitya, Mitya, are you home? Will you put on my pyjamas for me?' He said, ‘Just wait a minute.' She must have heard the dullness in his voice, realised there was no use in pleading, and sat down on the floor and started to pull the pyjamas on herself, making heavy weather of it, putting the trousers on back to front. Dmitry softened. He said, ‘Come here; let me help… Let's go upstairs and I'll read you a story.'

He picked her up and carried her upstairs. Through the open bedroom door he saw Katie sitting on the edge of the crumpled bed, her knees wide apart, her upper body leaning forward and the hair spilling over her face, and the baby lying across her lap, taking his bedtime feed. Katie was not looking at him, she was not looking at anything; her eyes had that distant, faraway look they so often had while nursing the baby. She did not acknowledge Dmitry's presence as he hesitated for an instant in the doorway. He said as he passed by, ‘Billennium have gone bankrupt.' He didn't wait to see her reaction. He dropped Anna on to the bed and found a book to read, a long story about a crocodile who ate children; then he kissed Anna goodnight, tucked her in and went downstairs.

Katie was already there, sitting at the table, looking at the letter. She said, ‘What are we going to do?'

He said, ‘I don't know… I'll ring them in the morning. Perhaps there will be another publisher who'll take it on… maybe they'll pay up… I'll go and look at the contract…'

Katie said, ‘We were relying on it… Tim's deposit will only cover the bills… how are we going to pay the mortgage?'

‘We can borrow more from the bank. I'm going to see the bank manager tomorrow… don't worry, I'll sort it out.'

‘We've already borrowed more from the bank. Mitya, we've been over all this… even with that money we were only just going to be able to manage…'

‘Don't go on about it!' Dmitry snatched the letter out of Katie's hand and with an angry gesture stuffed it in among the other papers in his desk. He was angry with himself; time and again he came home to Katie wanting to please her, to help her with the children, yes, and show how much he loved her, but somehow when he got here it all turned to destructive and futile rows. He went over to the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out the vodka bottle and poured himself a drink.

Katie was talking to him; he heard her say, ‘You're not listening to me.' She was talking in the low voice she always used when she was trying to be reasonable. Her face looked worried and pained. ‘Should we try to sell?'

‘Sell the house? How will that help us? You know it's already worth less than we paid for it… At least here we get the income from the flat and anywhere we rent is likely to be just as expensive…'

Dmitry stared down at the crockery piled up in the sink. For a moment he felt like smashing it. This whole situation was his fault; he felt he should have made more effort to find work to support his family, and it was because of him they had no safety net; until he got his permanent residency they were not able even to claim any state benefits, not even Katie in her own right. Katie rose from the table, took some potatoes out of the vegetable rack and threw them into a saucepan. Upstairs, the baby, who they had thought to be asleep, started crying again. At a glance from Katie, Dmitry went upstairs, sat on the edge of their crumpled bed and started to rock the cradle. He rocked it faster and faster, keeping up a regular rhythm, listening to the floorboard in the uncarpeted room creak and Anna talking aloud to her teddy in the next room. A wild thought came into his head; that perhaps Rozanov or the people he worked for had arranged for Billennium to go bankrupt. Or, much more likely, that he had known already… that could be why he had come today, it might have been in the morning's papers.

The baby's cries became more and more half-hearted and finally he fell asleep. Dmitry stopped rocking the cradle, sitting there tensely, expecting the baby to start up again; but there was only silence. Anna had gone to sleep; there was suddenly a great stillness in the room. Dmitry leaned over and looked at his son's small head with the fine down of hair, at the plump little hands resting on either side of it, and felt suddenly overwhelmed. What was there in his life that could possibly be as important as this tiny creature? As long as they had life and health did anything else really matter? He thought to himself, be grateful… remember to be grateful. Everything is not lost. He had better see what other work he could do… he would get on the phone tomorrow… surely there must be something…

At three o'clock in the morning he sat up suddenly and found that he was wide awake, as if he'd never been asleep. The wind rattled the ill-fitting sash window; it was very cold. He began to think about that research proposal he had done all those years ago. What had he done with the notebooks? He would go and have a look in the attic tomorrow. He wouldn't have to go to the library tomorrow, there was no point now…

He turned over in bed and looked at Katie sleeping beside him. Her thick, wavy hair was spread out over the pillow. She stirred and put out her hand, touched him, and then, as if reassured, was still. He started to stroke her hair, her shoulder, then, moving down, her hips and thighs; she half woke and murmured, ‘No, Mitya, don't… so tired… want to sleep.' He knew that if he carried on she would eventually respond to him, that she would enjoy it, she always did, but it seemed unkind, he knew how exhausted she was. He was acutely aware of the danger they were in, as if it were something palpable, nearby him; he felt a fierce desire to protect her and moved closer, pulling her against him, drawing her head in against his shoulder.

‘H
ERE, take a look at these.'

Tim's editor tossed a pile of cuttings and a long screed from the wire service on to his already overflowing desk, hesitating only a moment in his swift passage across the newsroom floor, not stopping to hear Tim's response. Tim pushed his chair back from the computer screen on his long, semi-circular desk and looked at the cuttings. One reported on a survey which claimed that two-thirds of Russia's defence scientists wanted to work in the West now that their salaries were virtually worthless. Another piece pointed out that 30 tonnes of highly enriched uranium were due to be released annually over the next 15 years as Soviet warheads were scrapped. Two short items involved more cases of small quantities of nuclear material being intercepted in the West. Tim picked up the phone and dialled the extension in Rowley's office. ‘What do you want me to do with these?'

‘I think we should do a proper in-depth investigation into all this. I've spoken to our Moscow team, but in view of your interest in this subject I thought you could put it all together… do you fancy a trip to Russia?'

Yes! This was what he had been working towards. He said, as casually as he could, ‘Of course.'

Rowley didn't waste any more time. ‘Put down some initial thoughts as to how you'd go about it and we'll talk tomorrow.'

Tim finished work at around nine o'clock and stepped out into the Gray's Inn Road, breathing in the cold night air with relief. As always the pressure of his job left him reeling with a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. He took a taxi home; when he came in, the flat was just as he had left it; the furniture all over the place, boxes still lying about unpacked and clothes still spread out across the bed. In the living room, Ingrid was quietly working on her essay.

Tim tried unsuccessfully to hide his annoyance. ‘Couldn't you have done some clearing up?'

‘I have my essay to finish. I have deadlines as well, you know.'

Ingrid bowed her head over her work, and silence fell. Tim flopped on to the sofa and watched her. She was writing by hand, and as she worked, unconsciously, she twanged the rubber band she had wound round her fingers. The sound irritated him more intensely every moment, but he could not bring himself to say so. He knew that once he began a whole torrent of irritations and dissatisfactions would follow, so he kept quiet and picked up the newspaper; Ingrid continued to work as if he hadn't been there. Tim's irritation reached its peak and suddenly he found himself snapping, ‘
Must
you do that?'

‘Do what?' She looked genuinely startled, not conscious of having done anything.

‘Twang that rubber band.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry.' She unwrapped it from her fingers and placed it carefully on the edge of the desk, arranging it in a neat circle. Then she turned back to her manuscript. Now, as she worked, she pulled out a long thread of hair and twisted it, round and round, with her fingers.

Tim tried to look away. Why did she have this effect on him? He couldn't be in the same room as her. After a few minutes he stood up, and took his paper through into the kitchen.

A few minutes later Ingrid came to stand in the doorway. ‘Is anything wrong?'

‘No.' He frowned, staring into space, trying to make it clear to her that he didn't want to be interrupted. He was aware that while he was sitting here he was trying to listen to the faint sounds from above, trying to see if he could distinguish anything from the footsteps and the faint murmurs of conversation.