Exposure (3 page)

He is still for a long time, and empty. He’s not feeling so sick now. He needs to give himself a few minutes and then try for the bedroom. He sees again the surface of his desk, and the file. Ma Clitterold won’t go up there now. He’s safe. But then it flashes over him, as if he’s opened the door of a room on fire: he took Julian’s file home overnight, as he did with all of them. He’s always in early, no matter how late the night before. He slides the files he’s been working on back into the chaos of his desk. But this file has got to go back to Julian’s office. Those initials. Christ. He can’t pass this one off.

He could have done it easily. Taken the file along as a sandwich filling between a couple of duffers. Brenda would have dealt with it.

Not now. He won’t be in early tomorrow.
Today.
He must get that file back before Frith comes looking for it.

He can still do it. Get to the phone. Ring Julian.

Fuck it. He must have hit his head harder than he thought. Julian’s in Venice. Christ, Holloway,
think.

It’s got to be someone who’ll do it but not grasp what he’s doing. Someone who’ll do it for him, Giles
Holloway. Someone who knows the office, and Brenda, and won’t be noticed—

He knows. Of course he does. Another qualm of sickness goes through him as he knows who it is.

Giles is in a bed at last, in a private room, wearing a hospital gown. His own bed, blessedly flat and white after the ambulance’s red blankets and the slippery lurch of the trolleys that have carted him from one department to the next. The hospital porters whistled like coal-men heaving sacks on to their shoulders. They braced themselves as they lifted him: ‘Got your end, Ron? Here we go. One, two, three, upsidaisy.’

‘Is there someone whom we could telephone?’ the Sister asks.

He gives her Ma Clitterold’s name, and his own number. ‘My housekeeper comes in at nine.’

All night, it seems, he has been wheeled from one desolate room to another. He has been X-rayed, prodded, bled. Porters wheeled him down corridors and backed his trolley expertly into lifts. They slid him on and off examination couches.

Now the nurses refuse to give him a cup of tea: he is NIL BY MOUTH. He has concussion, it seems, but
his skull is not fractured. They are going to operate on his leg.

‘There is someone whom I must telephone urgently,’ he says, but the Sister only nods. He will be going into theatre at eleven. Mr Anstruther is coming in specially, she announces, as if this is a rare privilege.

‘Surely there’s a telephone you can bring to me?’

‘I want you to lie perfectly still. You have concussion.’

They are running a tank over his head. Pain comes in regular, complete pulses. He turns aside and vomits into a kidney dish held by a student nurse. He smells whisky. She takes away the bowl. Now the Sister is back. She won’t let him drink but she wipes his mouth. ‘I want you to lie quite still,’ she says.

It’s Simon he has got to see. He struggles to raise himself on his pillow so that he can look at his watch, but his watch has gone. Simon Callington. He said the name aloud, he thinks, but it doesn’t matter. ‘What time is it?’

‘It’s five to ten, Mr Holloway. You’ll be going down to theatre in an hour. Just keep nice and quiet for me.’

They’ll wonder where he is. He’s never ill. Never even has a hangover, no matter how much – His desk at the office will be just as he left it, with a worm of cigarette ash on top of the pile of papers. So carelessly, carefully dropped there. Files shoved in anyhow, or so it appears. Giles has his own system.

Ma Clitterold will ring the office, full of the drama of his accident. The secretaries will pass on the message. Frith will hear it, and whoever Frith’s working for.
Quietly and without any fuss, they’ll take advantage of his absence.

Frith will pop in. He’ll stand over Giles’s desk, oyster eyes gleaming behind his glasses. Giles pictures the slow smile spreading over Frith’s features. He can’t remember ever seeing him smile.

Those carefully casual, probing conversations over the past few months were a warning, and meant to be taken as such. But they don’t want to push him too far, not yet. They don’t want him to panic and fly off. They want him to lead them to Julian Clowde, even though Giles very much doubts that they even know it’s Julian they’ll find at the end of their long trail a-winding. But if he gets the file back … Once Brenda’s got it, they won’t be able to prove anything …

‘What time is it?’ he asks.

‘I want you to keep nice and still while I take your blood pressure.’

He is ill, really ill. He hears mutters above his head but doesn’t open his eyes.

‘You’re going to feel a little prick in your arm now.’

There is someone he must see but the name is gone. He cannot get to the places in his head where he keeps the right words. His eyes are sealed, as if someone else has his thumbs on the lids. With a rush of relief he gives in, as if he’s giving in to death.

It is light. Giles lies beached on his bed. He can see the fold of the sheet. There is a vile, rubbery taste in his mouth. He gags, and someone lifts his head. His teeth
chatter on the rim of an enamelled dish; he heaves and vomits. He is alive and out of surgery. Now he can see the nurse’s hands taking away the kidney bowl. Another nurse kneels by the side of his bed and takes his hand. Her young, fresh voice goes in and out of his consciousness. ‘You are back from theatre, Mr Holloway. It’s all gone well. Mr Anstruther will be coming to see you shortly.’

They are giving him blood. He doesn’t care about anything. He is empty. He has vomited out all the filth of the night.

‘Simon,’ he mutters. ‘I must see Simon Callington.’

The nurse puts her fingers on his wrist. ‘Mr Anstruther will be coming to see you presently. Try to sleep now.’

He sleeps and wakes. Mr Anstruther stands by the bed, a glorious pinstriped column. Giles raises his eyes and sees at once that Mr Anstruther is someone who will understand. He listens, gathering his forces, as Mr Anstruther explains about the internal bleeding that made the operation a little more tricky, and its satisfactory conclusion. In a day or two Giles will be in the pink.

Giles strikes. He opens his eyes, gives a small, apologetic smile, says, ‘You’ve been marvellous. This is all a frightful bore. I need to ring up a couple of people quite urgently – is that in order?’

Anstruther glances down at his notes. ‘You’re at the Admiralty, I gather.’

‘Yes. Hellishly busy at the moment, too, more’s the pity.’

They are in it together, two men at the top of their profession, self-deprecating, knowing their own worth. Very probably Anstruther
is
at the top of his profession. Giles can still gather it to himself, the manner that makes things happen, even though he’s falling, not rising – falling right through himself …

‘I’d be most awfully grateful,’ he says through closed eyes.

Giles’s bed is right by the nursing station, because they need to keep a close eye on him after the anaesthetic. But yes, he will be moved back into his private room as soon as possible.

The telephone. The clanky old trolley with the phone and trailing wire that plugs into the wall. Here it is by the bed, within reach. And here is a bottle of Lemon Solo squash beside his water jug, a pile of clean handkerchiefs and his wallet. Ma Clitterold must have visited while he was asleep. He is not in the ward any more, but back in his private room. He must be better, or else more time has passed than he realised. Blood is still going into his arm. He wants to lie here, thinking of nothing, listening to the hiss of traffic far beneath the window.

It’s dark outside. The day is over. They’ve moved around him, sponging him and emptying bags. His left leg, in heavy plaster, hangs suspended from the ceiling. There is the blood transfusion tube going into one arm, and for some reason they’ve left a blood-pressure cuff on the other, slack but ready for service. Why on earth
have they done that? How do they expect him to make a telephone call with that thing on his arm?

He rings the bell. A very young nurse pads in and takes the thermometer from the case above his bed.

‘Before you start on that,’ he instructs her, ‘I need you to get a number for me, and then pass me the receiver.’

‘I must fill in your chart first,’ she says.

It hurts him to look up at her face. She is so young. Her face is smooth and pink, obstinate. He’ll have to be careful.

‘All right, my dear, you go ahead.’ She frowns with concentration as she takes his temperature and blood pressure, and fills in his chart, but she doesn’t meet his eyes. Give me the sodding telephone, he thinks, and bugger off. But no, he needs her to dial the numbers for him.

She wedges the receiver rather cleverly so that he can speak without having to hold it. A wave of exhaustion catches him. Concentrate, Giles. After four rings, the phone is picked up. No one speaks.

‘Oh hello, it’s me,’ he says, the usual tired, automatic formula. ‘You know, George’s cousin. I’ve had a bit of an accident and I’m in the Latimer. There are a few things I’d like you to pick up from the flat, if you would. Don’t bother about the file; someone will be coming from the office to sort out all that. You’ve still got the keys, haven’t you? Thought so. Excellent. You know my study. I’ll tell my Mrs Thing.’

Still got the keys
, he thinks, eyes closed, as the nurse
replaces the receiver. Fatigue and nausea wash through him again. They’ve got the keys all right. The keys to everything, lock, stock and barrel. Sometimes, when he comes home, he’s pretty sure they’ve been in the flat. They keep an eye on him. Nothing is obviously disturbed, but he can sense it. They want him to sense it. They know he knows they know.

That’s sorted out the Minox and the other stuff. Now for the file.

‘I’m not sure …’ says the girl doubtfully. She’s worried about Sister. Mr Holloway is a head injury and needs to be kept quiet.

‘One more brief call,’ says Giles. With an effort, he opens his eyes. The silly pink face gapes at him. Will she, won’t she? Of course she will.

It’s after eight o’clock when the telephone rings in the hall of Lily and Simon’s house. The children are all in bed. Lily hurries, in case the ringing wakes them.

‘Lily Callington speaking. Yes. Yes, he is. Just a moment, please.’

Simon is reading the latest number of his son’s
Railway Magazine.
He looks absurdly serious over it, just as Paul does. Simon assumes that the caller will be one of Lily’s friends – Erica, probably. Simon hates the telephone. He has quite enough of it at work.

‘It’s Giles Holloway for you.’

‘Bloody hell. I thought he was in hospital. There was a memo round this afternoon saying he’d had an accident.’

‘Was it serious?’

‘Can’t have been, can it, if he’s ringing me up?’

Lily dislikes Giles Holloway. Or perhaps she’s been unfair. The first time they met, long ago, he’d had too much to drink. His eyes flickered over her. She thought, or perhaps imagined, that there was something hostile there. But since then he has always been civil. He’s an old friend of Simon’s. It was Giles who got Simon his job.

She watches as Simon pushes back his chair, already preoccupied. The magazine drops to the floor. Simon goes out of the room, pulling the door to behind him. Lily picks up the magazine and smoothes its cover. Paul won’t like to see it creased. He is a collector, a careful saver of railway tickets, postcards and memorabilia.

Simon picks up the receiver. He speaks quietly, aware of the sleeping children and the bedroom door left open upstairs, because Bridget likes to see the landing light.

‘Hello.’

‘It’s Giles.’

‘I thought you were in hospital.’

‘I am. Simon, dear boy, could you do something for me? I was working on some documents which need to go back to the office – to Julian Clowde’s secretary. If you come down now, I’ll give you my keys. I’d be enormously grateful …’ The voice weakens. He’s in a bad way, thinks Simon, his irritation swallowed in concern. ‘I’m in the Latimer, in a private room. Let me ask the nurse for the ward number—’

‘But surely it’s too late for visitors?’

A flash of impatience. ‘For God’s sake, Simon, I’m not asking you to sit at my bedside.’

Typical Giles, thinks Simon, as he puts the receiver into its cradle. He always wrong-foots you. And now, somehow, Simon has agreed to cross London, pick up Giles’s keys and collect whatever work it is that Giles has taken home so that it can be returned to the office the next day. That’s the evening gone. He and Lily were going to listen to the play on the wireless, and then go to bed early.

‘Why are you wearing your coat?’ asks Lily.

‘It’s bloody annoying. Giles left some work at home which needs to go back to the office asap apparently. That’s why he was ringing. What an idiot.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know what’s up with him. He wants me to pick up his keys and then collect a file from the flat.’

‘Now?’

‘He said it’s urgent.’

‘Surely you could do it tomorrow, if you go in early.’

‘I know. He’s the limit, but he’s smashed his leg badly. They had to operate. He’s lost a lot of blood and he’s got a head injury. He sounded all in. You know how obstinate he is when he’s set on something.’

‘I don’t really know him at all,’ says Lily, and picks up another exercise book. ‘I suppose he was drinking when he had the accident. He’s like a child, Simon, and you all cover for him.’

Simon’s face darkens. ‘Don’t wait up for me, Lily. I’ll creep in quietly.’

She looks up, looks him full in the face. ‘Be careful.’

The door clicks softly, and Simon’s gone. Lily thinks of him hurrying through the dark streets and all the way downhill to the Tube station. She hears the wheeze of the train doors as he is swallowed inside. He’s going to the hospital and then Giles Holloway’s flat. She can’t picture either place, but everything to do with Giles makes her uneasy. If only he hadn’t rung Simon—

She squashes the thought. In a couple of hours Simon will be back and everything will be as it was before. You have to feel some sympathy for a man on his own, with no one to look after him. A smashed leg and concussion sound quite serious.

But I don’t sympathise, she thinks. I don’t want Simon to have anything to do with Giles Holloway.

She looks up at the clock. There are eight more exercise books to correct, and then she’ll switch on the play. According to the
Radio Times
it’s about a woman who loses her memory and doesn’t recognise her own children. Ridiculous. However, it’ll take her mind off Simon out there in the dark. Her hand reaches out for the top exercise book, but instead of opening it she stands up, kicks off her shoes and goes lightly through the hall, up the stairs and on to the landing outside Bridget’s little slip of a room. The door is ajar, as always. Inside, the room is dark, still, warm. Lily thinks that
she can smell Bridget’s sleep. She’s the only one of the three who still has that baby-smell.

She stands there for a while, then goes to Sally’s bedroom door, and listens. There’s no sound, so she moves on to Paul’s. They are all asleep. Lily is smiling as she moves noiselessly back downstairs.