Let me think
A longer short story, one which received good reviews from the peer review website, YouWriteOn.com. It featured as a bestseller and as a result received the following professional review:
I thought this was a really intriguing story with an innovative plot and I enjoyed reading it. I also think your writing style is great, carrying the reader along with it as any good thriller should do.You’ve created some very vivid characters, particularly in Paul, Sir Ian and Candace, and I wanted to get to know them better. I also wanted to know much more about certain details of the plot, particularly the relationship and those intriguing middle scenes between Paul and Candace. I actually think that there’s enough plot in this short story for a novel, and I really do feel the story would benefit from being expanded. At the moment lots of exciting and dramatic events are brushed over very quickly, meaning that certain explanations are a little unclear. Your writing is certainly strong enough to carry through a lengthier piece of work, but obviously this is only a suggestion.This is a really interesting twist on a thriller – congratulations!
Enough! On with the story!
Let me think
“Thank you, Mr Rivers.” The train slowed as it coasted towards Peterborough, passengers shuffling, briefcases snapping shut. I gazed at the pen held out to me.
It was my pen, no doubt about it. ‘Love you always, J.’ inscribed on the gold barrel. Why was this woman holding the pen my first wife had given me on our twentieth anniversary? My focus shifted to the face behind the immaculate and expensive suit. African…couldn’t say which part though. Mid to late thirties, her dark complexion set off by a pristine white blouse. Her eyes held mine for a few seconds, then dropped naturally back to my pen.
“Er.. no problem.”
“I’ll leave you the crossword to finish,” she smiled. Not a convincing smile, but expansive. “Thank you again for the loan of your pen.”
She tucked an attaché case under her arm, reached for her coat and handbag and left. I caught one glimpse of her slim figure with closely cropped hair. The crowds surging forward to board the train parted then closed behind her.
I was getting old. No point trying to stall the obvious. Phyllis’ death after only three years’ marriage had knocked me into a heap. And now my memory was failing. I had absolutely no recollection of the woman asking, or me reaching into my inside pocket to give her the pen. Nor telling her my name for that matter.
As the train picked up speed, I tried to forget the incident. Cruel thing, memory – it will suck small events; trivia like names and occupations and even something as simple and recent as lending someone a pen, out of reach like a bottomless swamp. But it won’t let you forget other things. They bob to the surface at will, or simply refuse to submerge.
The crossword was all but complete. There was at least an hour to go before we arrived in London, so not much hope of diversion there.
Damn! ‘I’ arrived, not ‘we.’ Time to stop thinking in the plural. We was last month. We was last lifetime. We were Jenny and Paul, then Phyllis and Paul. Now it was ‘I’. I got up, I ate breakfast, I went out into the garden, I wandered around the bright supermarket wondering where the bacon was kept. For such a short word, ‘I’ certainly knew how to resonate with emptiness.
Oh, come on! Fold up the news rag. Sir Ian was right. Get active, and lose yourself with work. Let the rancid recent sweat itself out and give the grief chance to mature into something bearable.
As if by confirmation the laptop in front of me emitted a muted chirrup. One more email to add to the long list of correspondence.
From: Ian Holst
To: Paul Rivers
Subject: Where the hell are you?
Paul, please tell me you’re on your way. Things are bad.
Ian.
It unsettled me that Sir Ian was so obviously rattled. I didn’t want to imagine what life was like further down the pyramid of power. Not for the first time I was glad it was all behind me.
I folded the paper and jammed it into the rack on the seat in front. From there the advertisement on the back page teased my peripheral vision. ‘OVER TO YOU!’
I turned it over, out of sight. But the damage had been done. The memory swamp heaved and belched. I was back in Doctor Hassim’s surgery.
Phyllis, grave, unflappable Phyllis silhouetted against the window blinds, the only calm presence in the room.
“Doctor Hassim, really it is all right. I can cope. I just need to know what to expect.”
The doctor, usually a study in professional demeanour, was close to tears. He scrutinized the consultant’s letter, just in case, written between the lines was the message: ‘Actually, everything’s fine.’ But the typewritten page yielded no such comfort.
“Paul.” Doctor Hassim and I played squash some weekends, so the familiarity was accepted; “I just don’t know what to say…the odds are so against this happening.”
“This is going to be hard for you, Paul dear,” Phyllis was watching me steadily. She didn’t need to say, ‘especially for the second time.’
Two wives; Jenny, four foot nine, blonde, bubbly and notoriously incapable of reading a map but who could read pain or anxiety in someone’s face a room’s length away. After she died I married Phyllis, dark-haired, a foot taller whom I never heard raise her voice; unlike Jenny who could lose her temper in moments. Two women, utterly dissimilar from each other as it was possible to be, but united by a rare, runaway cancer cell that with cavalier contempt for statistics claimed both their lives. Even the same breast. To my mind statistics assumed the form of a well-trained assassin.
The advertisement that caught my eye was running in all the dailies, on street hoardings, during programme breaks on TV. Cancer research was poised to break through. Many common strains of the disease were now within reach of a cure. Money was needed. Money to buy the time of brilliant men and women, money to bring them and their research together, money to harness the firepower of the multinational drug companies. Some European governments had broken ranks and promised capital finance. Most had walked away, citing difficult economic times. Thwarted, the cancer charities were appealing forlornly to the public, hence the tagline, ‘OVER TO YOU.’ Mentally I shrugged. My two thousand five hundred pounds per annum donation would hardly buy a course of drugs, let alone a cure.
The laptop squeaked again.
Paul, answer me!
Ian
‘On my way,’ I typed. ‘Meet me at Kings Cross at twelve-fifteen.’
Just under an hour. I settled back and began to review the email exchanges in front of me.
It began back in the spring of this year. Well, at least the parts of the Arachne project relevant to my expertise. Arachne was a tracking system that had been developed to hunt and destroy missiles, building on American and European defence technology research that had spawned notable successes such as the Patriot anti-missile missile batteries. The sophistication of the latest test versions of Arachne stunned even its designers. There seemed to be little it was not capable of bringing down; long and short-range ballistic weapons, aircraft, battlefield devices, you name it, Arachne could hit it. Arachne was hot property, and defence procurement began tendering for contracts to improve and build useable versions of the weapon. Much of this was cloaked in secrecy, and the assumption was that the tender would go out to the standard handful of European and United States contractors whose track record was known and who could be guaranteed to have a tried and tested Arachne at least three times over budget and within a time scale that would give it eighteen months of service life. That was until the target missiles became too clever once more.
All this was evident in the early correspondence from Sir Ian Holst, my immediate boss at the Ministry procurement office.
‘Just keeping you in the picture, Paul. Give my love to Phyllis. Chin up old chap.’
As spring turned to summer, the tone of the exchanges became tenser on both sides. With Phyllis’ pain-etched face my primary concern, I missed the significance of remarks such as:
‘Missing your input here, Paul. Especially on Arachne.’
It was only now, noticing that he failed to ask after Phyllis that I understood the strain he was under. At the time I neither noticed nor cared. History was repeating itself in every grim detail.
Two days before she died, Phyllis, in that merciful window of opportunity before the morphine took her lucidity but sufficiently pain-controlled to speak, had held my hand.
“Paul, love. Don’t mope around here when I’m gone. It sound like Ian needs your help. At least do it for him.”
“Who else would I do it for?”
She either smiled or winced. “Certainly not for your country, if I know you.”
Twice Ian had phoned me asking for advice. “It’s like a runaway jury,” he complained. “Nobody knows much about Kawuna; where they’re from, their portfolio, who even is in charge, yet, they keep popping up. Something stinks, someone’s on the make.”
When the Kawuna corporation had first entered the race to become the consortium to develop and realise Arachne, it had been treated as the spoof email, to be passed on with ribald comments and savoured over a glass of Chardonnay at the lunchtime buffets. Kawuna Inc. represented a hapless gaggle of East and South African contractors with as little experience of defence contract tendering as it was humanly possible to have. Their four men, one woman team had been openly snubbed, whilst the usual suspects for the work, General Dynamics, or European Aeronautics had polished their pitches and made their promises. That was where it should have rested and Sir Ian could have relaxed. But they just wouldn’t go away.
“I tell you, they’ve got somebody in their pocket. And it’s not just the ridiculous price they’re asking. They as good as admit to having had no experience in anything other than conventional ordnance.” On the end of the line I could hear Sir Ian pouring himself a drink.
“Careful with that stuff Ian. Why don’t you reduce the negotiating team a bit more?”
He came to Phyllis’ funeral. True friend that he was he had steadfastly refrained from mentioning the living nightmare his work had become. Instead he joined me in a sustained descent into alcoholic stupor, staying with me long after the last mourners had departed. If I had been more aware, I would have noticed the haggard look about his face. A week later he emailed me:
From: Ian Holst
To: Paul Rivers
Subject: Kawuna.
Paul, are you planning to stay retired?
Ian.
Certain that members of the Ministry were corrupt, Sir Ian had savagely pruned the negotiating team until it could barely function. They moved locations to anonymous hotels around the periphery of the capital. But if anything this suited the Kawuna team more. Smiling, unfazed they continued their increasingly improbable pitch, and it yielded results. The Americans pulled out in disgust.
From: Ian Holst
To: Paul Rivers
Subject: Kawuna.
Paul, take a look at the attached, am I missing something?
Ian.
If he was, so was I. The attachment was the accumulated total of information on Kawuna. It amounted to five pages; photographs, director profiles, centres of operation. Most of it was supplied by them.
One night last week I found a message on my answering machine.
“Paul, pick up will you…for pity’s sake pick up man…!” I could hear a bottle sloshing in the background. He was close to tears. “I know this is a bad time for you and all that, but for the love of sanity, get down here. They’ve named new terms, Paul. They’re outrageous, outrageous, d’ye hear me…”
The message ran out after two minutes. In that time he had rambled incoherently, twice dropping the phone. Anxiously, I phoned a mutual friend who lived a few minutes’ drive from Sir Ian’s house in leafy Hampshire. She visited and reported later that, apart from a very sore head tomorrow, Sir Ian was otherwise intact. I emailed him that night.
Stop drinking or I won’t come.
King’s Cross heaved with travellers. Two trains had been cancelled and grumpy passengers surged forward to get on the train I was trying to leave. Finally forcing my way through, I saw Sir Ian standing, or more accurately swaying by the ticket barriers. Remonstrations died on my lips.
“How are you, dear chap? Ready to join the fray?” He seized my elbow, and almost stumbled over me. He looked dreadful: three days’ stubble, no tie and a shoelace flapping loose. “Or perhaps time for a little drink first?” He laughed, too loudly for my liking.
“Yes, coffee.” I firmly propelled him out of the station and onto the Euston Road, steering past the Euston Pub towards nearest coffee house. As we lurched in, he glanced furtively around and insisted on us sitting in the darkest corner. Then the forced smile dissipated and he put his face on the table and wept.
I had never known my friend in such a state of raw exhaustion and perplexity. All his professional capability had deserted him. I fetched a couple of espressos and waited for his composure to return.
“The contract,” he croaked, waving a sheaf of paper in front of my nose. “Look upon it and die.” Then he put his face in his hands again.
My heart skipped a beat. “That’s confidential, Ian. What on earth are you doing with it out here?”
“When this is signed, they’ll be no secrecy left. Arachne is finished; I’m finished. Just look, man.”
It was, like he said months ago, akin to some huge practical joke. The contract bore little resemblance to anything I had seen. It was professional, suave and at first glance impressive. It made inspiring claims about Kawuna’s cutting edge technology, hardware and software systems. It lauded their dedication to developing expertise and maintaining secrecy. In most respects it was kosher. Apart from the obvious one – unless I had blinked professionally for the last ten years, there was no way they could deliver a fraction of what they claimed.
“Keep reading.” Sir Ian eyed his coffee with disfavour. And the more I read, the more I wondered whether I was right about him needing only coffee. By the time I reached the penultimate page, my hands were shaking. “I’m off to freshen up,” he announced, and weaved away to the toilets.
I realised then, reading the last page, that at the same time I had watched Phyllis die, he had watched his career do the same. A rogue mutation had rampaged through his ordered world, and the signing of this document would be as final to his reputation as signing the certificate had been for me to say that Phyllis was truly no longer alive. I read and re-read the page. Eventually Sir Ian returned, his face still wet from washing, and sat down heavily.
“Hand dryer’s busted,” he announced glumly. “And no way was I going to use the towel.”
“So what happens next?” I knew. Of course I knew. Ministry of Defence officials would scrutinize the ‘contract’, tear it up and all hell would break loose.
“I know what you’re thinking, Paul.” Sir Ian seemed more composed. “And a week ago I would have agreed with you. But,” he twisted the tip of his nose, “from their track record so far, I wouldn’t be in the slightest surprised if the mandarins rolled over and let Kawuna scratch their bellies as well.” He sighed. “Either way I’m finished. If…no, when, that contract is signed, and it gets the official okay, well we kiss goodbye to five billion of Her Majesty’s government’s cash. Twenty-five percent of that is up-front, what they call ‘development costs’ which they want before they’ll lift a finger.” He picked up his coffee, took a sip. “But that’s only the tip of the proverbial. Some of the Kawuna corporation affiliates make the missiles Arachne’s supposed to shoot down. We’re giving the whole shebang away. I’m dreaming this, of course.”
Yes, I reflected. That last page certainly lifted the whole extraordinary thing into the realms of something from the Mad Hatter’s tea party. A quarter of the total sum handed over for doing nothing. And if Her Majesty’s government backed down on this agreement, they would be held liable for two-thirds of the full amount. Somebody, if not everybody, was bewitched, agreeing to nonsense like this.
“What happens after each negotiation session? I mean, does anyone realise it’s all wrong?”
Sir Ian shrugged. “You know how it is when something hasn’t turned out for the best? People get defensive, or resigned to the outcome. Well that’s what’s happening here. We have meetings through the night, I scream blue murder at the likes of Cyril Bridges – you know how thorough he is – and we decide a damage limitation strategy. Then when he goes back in there, it all goes by the board. We even went to tell them they were no longer being considered for the contract…”
“And?” I felt this was coming to a head.
“When Cyril, Julie and Nigel emerged, well, you can guess.”
Those were all people I was familiar with, and in Sir Ian’s position would have trusted without conditions.
“Who are in Kawuna’s team?”
“No one special, if that’s what you think. No hypnotists, no one waving fob watches around – we’ve had cameras at every meeting since June, and it’s always the same pattern; two men do most of the talking, two more supply information when asked for it, and the secretary just takes notes and occasionally asks questions, usually in Swahili. All of them from Ethiopia except for their main spokesman who is South African.”
“Does anyone leave the room? Get up, walk around… oh help me out here Ian! Does anyone do anything out of the ordinary?”
He giggled weakly, like a tired schoolboy. “Paul, the whole setup’s absurd. Preposterous. Stuff of nightmares. But no. They jut sit there and talk.”
Back in the main area of the coffee shop, a juke box burst into life. I listened to the song for a few moments, marshalling my thoughts.
“Okay, I’ll do what I can. But Ian, I’m not sure of my own suitability for this. I had a memory lapse on the way down this morning. Did something and have absolutely no recall of it. It’s the strain of Phyllis’ illness I suppose.”
“I’d prefer a complete blackout right now.” He gave the ghost of a grin. “I should have retired when you went, Paul.”
So I left it at that.
It was good to see my erstwhile colleagues again. We had worked together for a long time. Everybody knew. There was only a moment of diffidence before Cyril seized my arm.
“Paul. How’re you coping? Still talking to her as if she’s there?” He had lost Monica two years ago, and knew all the symptoms of ‘ghost wife syndrome.’ We had a shared vocabulary of medical terms; metastasizing, secondaries, carcinoma, blood markers: the whole panoply of hastily-acquired medical expressions.
Julie, emerging from an inner office, wordlessly folded her arms round me. We had been out on a couple of dates a few months after Jenny died. But it was doomed on both sides. Julie was licking her wounds after a failed relationship and needed a shoulder to cry on. For my part, after Jenny’s uncanny ability to tune into my wavelength, any new companionship was a struggle and things just petered out. Then I had met Phyllis, who was a great deal closer my age anyway.
“Come to sort us out, Paul?” Julie was inspecting me. Then; “you’ve lost weight. It suits you.”
We talked through the Kawuna phenomenon. Using a data projector, Sir Ian brought me up to speed with the fiasco. Julie and Cyril sat stony-faced as the sorry tale unfolded. But as Sir Ian said, there was no definable point in the negotiation process that you could point to and say, ‘Stop! That’s where it goes wrong.’ It felt like a moon mission rocket that through a series of accumulated insignificant mistakes ended up missing the target.
“Where’s Nigel?” I screwed my eyes up as the room lights came back on.
“Off sick,” Julie said. “He’s had a bit of a breakdown.”
“We’ve all had a rough time of it lately,” mused Sir Ian. I was relieved to see he had showered, shaved and changed. Everybody was subdued. Tension had dried the enthusiasm out of everyone, and they had wilted like neglected pot plants.
“When do we meet them next?” Cyril asked. “I understand some of their team have returned to Ethiopia.”
“Tomorrow,” Sir Ian replied glumly.
For want of anything better to suggest I said, “Let’s view the footage of the negotiations so far.”
The room lights came on. After two hours of concentration, I felt the urgent need for more coffee. “I’ll get Julie to make some,” Sir Ian murmured and got up to leave. He had calmed down a little but watching the events of the last two meetings unfolding on the screen before me, I could sense he was in a lull before another storm. Unless I could unpick the enigma of Kawuna’s runaway success quickly, Sir Ian was going to go down again hard – and take his department with him.
It was, as he had said, absurd. Kawuna’s team were on the home straight now. In the most recent recording their main spokesman, Hakim, started the proceedings by circulating the draft contract to our team – by now down to Cyril, Julie and Sir Ian himself. Their amendments began halfway down the second page and were ringed in pencil. Quietly Hakim explained the reasons for each revision, breaking off to consult with Kabede, his second-in-command.
“Do you have a translation of what they’re saying?” Knowing Sir Ian I could guess the answer.
“Here, and it’s clean.” A file was thrust into my hand. “Are you going to read it now? Do you want the lights on?”
“No, I’ll look later.”
With Sir Ian out of the room, however, I glanced at the file. The translations were from Swahili to literal English, then a third line of suggested intent was added. Nothing leapt out at me. I felt sure that Sir Ian’s department would have picked up something obvious. I would read it later.
“Here you are Paul.” Julie placed the coffee on the boardroom table and sat down, crossing her elegant legs. I tried not to notice. “Seen anything nasty yet?”
“No, not even a bedbug. Do you have any ideas?”
She leant closer and her perfume invaded my senses. Outwardly relaxed and professional; I could see she too was struggling to keep calm. “Paul, I’m at my wit’s end. Just now and then I think I see a glimpse of something dirty, but it turns out to be harmless. Like this one…” She flicked through the menu of the session recording. “One of their number comes into the room, hands Hakim a note. He reads it and points to something on the paper, then screws it up and drops it in the bin.”
“Let me guess, a food order?”
“Spot on. We checked it out; it was for a Halal sandwich bar. The order arrived thirty minutes later.”
“What about her? Did she eat too?” The secretary on the recording had glanced up, spoken to Hakim and snapped her note book shut.
“Thought you’d notice her. Pretty isn’t she Paul?”
“Wait!” I seized the remote control. “Back a few frames…no, too far…there!” For a brief moment the woman’s face was almost fully framed.
“What? Do you know her?”
“Have you any information on her?”
Julie riffled through the mess of files on the table. “Her name’s Candace. Candace Balaynesh. She’s from a little village in the south of Ethiopia. Studied accountancy in Addis Ababa but cut short her courses to return to her village. Popped up as part of Kawuna a year later. Both parents dead, some tribal uprising I think. Ah, here’s all we have on her.”
I thumbed through the file. “Not a lot is it really? Does she feature in all the negotiations?”
“Pretty well. No, come to think of it, she was there at the outset. Peasant girl made good I guess is what you’d say about her.”
“Do we have another one where she looks at the camera?”
“Not that I’ve noticed. She just keeps a low profile. Why?”
Julie was right. Candace kept her head down and scribbled shorthand on her notepad. Just now and then she would interrupt the discussions and the relief from Sir Ian and his team at breathing space would be palpable. A short exchange in Swahili would ensue then the calm, crazy demolition of Sir Ian’s career would remorselessly continue. With a total of over ten hours of video recording to wade through there was little time to confirm my suspicions. So I elected to test my theory by just dropping in randomly whenever she spoke.
“Paul, she’s just deferential.” We had just viewed a fourth clip where Candace, momentarily in the spotlight, hung her head. “In her culture a woman is expected to keep her head down and her thoughts to herself. Do you want another coffee?”
I scrutinized the woman’s profile. Her eyes were downcast as she spoke to the men in her team. I was letting my imagination run away with me. “I’ll make it Julie, I need a break.”
I was just holding the boardroom door open for Julie when Sir Ian burst out of his office into the corridor. “Stop whatever you’re doing.” He was red in the face and out of breath. “Paul, Julie, they’re here!”
I stared. It took a moment to grasp his meaning. “Kawuna?”
“Who else? They want to complete.”
“But Ian,” Julie looked aghast. “They can’t just turn round and reschedule…”
“Of course they can! Haven’t we messed them around enough? Changing venues, times, insisting they comply with our requirements,” Sir Ian was struggling to loosen his collar. “I tried to stall them, but Hakim insisted they had to be on tonight’s flight. This is it, Paul. Unless you’ve got any miracles to hand, I’m history.”
“We’re all history,” Julie murmured. “This will be our swan song.”
I mutter excuses and hurry to the washrooms. Once inside I run a basin, hot as I can bear, and plunge my face into it. Not once, but time and again, feeling the shock of near-scalding water over my skin. It helps to focus my mind on what I had just experienced. But nothing can expunge the sense of violation.
The meeting had begun with the usual pleasantries. Sir Ian made a point of introducing me to Kawuna’s team. They acknowledged me politely but without comment. There were murmured greetings, handshakes all round – except with the elusive Candace. She had installed herself behind Hakim and Kabede with her notebook open. I marched past them.
“Candace.” I bowed to her. “It is Candace, I take it?”
Her head snapped up for a moment. She was obviously taken aback at my overbearing manner. But she collected herself, took my outstretched hand and smiled.
“And you must be Paul Rivers. We are glad you could join us.”
“I told them that you’d be present, Paul.” Sir Ian looked flustered. “I explained that we’ll need your signature on the final agreement.” It was not a lie. An oversight in Personnel had left me as a mandatory signee on contracts exceeding one million pounds sterling. I had intended to revoke it, but so far had not had the chance. I wondered whether Hakim or Kabede would challenge him. But the moment passed.
The change of timetable had thrown all of our team. We had no strategy, nor any opportunity to devise one. Sir Ian did the only thing possible; her stalled. He began to filibuster shamelessly, speaking expansively about his hopes for the years of partnership between Her Majesty’s defence procurement service and Kawuna inc. Hakim and Kabede listened impassively. I locked my gaze onto Candace, studying her profile. Just as I had made up my mind that she was the woman on the train, reality went backstage.
Tranquillity
I sense enclosure, but I cannot detect limits. A moist cobweb hangs across my face, gossamer light, drifting gently in my breathing. I move my hand to pull it away, but there are more, brushing themselves around my arms and legs. I can move, but slowly, as the threads part to admit my body. Cushioning me is a warm sense of wetness, suffused all around is a soft, white light. Focussing is difficult but with an effort I see the threads are themselves the source of this ambient light; they emit gentle warmth that soaks into my consciousness.
Despite the overbearing urge to close my eyes, I look up. Or is it down? The threads reach out, joining each other at points, diverging at others. Where they converge the light is strongest, and from this radiance I can see I am in an immense space. Some threads criss-cross, others wave like seaweed until, with a flicker of light, they fuse with nearby strands; others part company and float free. The longer I focus, the more I perceive that my original impression of stillness was entirely wrong. In fact this activity is taking place in all directions, dwindling into far, far distance. It is just the silence that belies this hectic movement.
‘Thump.’
Distant. A subsonic rumble. Moments later the light pulses faintly. I count the seconds.
‘Thump.’ Nine…ten…eleven… ‘Thump.’
This time I close my eyes. I feel no claustrophobia, no need of explanation or account. I am suspended, foetus-like in this surreal environment, counting the seconds. Utter peace.
Nine…ten…eleven… Thump.
“Mr Rivers.” I know she has called many times but I cannot summon enough reasons to respond. I know, too, it is Candace. Of course, she would be here. I knew that. Nothing could be so obvious.
“Paul. Paul Rivers.” Her voice is low, warm and richly accented.
Languid opening of eyes. Candace is holding something out to me. The ethereal strands swathe around her then lazily move past. They blend with her white blouse and contrast with her dark suit. It takes a moment or two to read the inscription:
‘Love you always. J.’
My pen. Naturally Candace has my pen. She has borrowed it for the crossword, now she is giving it back.
“Thank you.” The voice is mine but my lips didn’t move.
‘Thump.’ Pulse.
“What’s that noise?”
“Take it Paul.”
“Of course.” I smile and close my eyes. Nothing could be more natural.
“Now let it go.”
“Sure…” Something like a soap bubble settles between my eyes. Pop! “Let what go?”
“Who am I?”
I study her face, her beautiful, even teeth and short hair. Somewhere in my head the engine is trying to engage drive. Who is she? But no matter how many times I push the gear lever into place, nothing connects. Then, as I watch, a swathe of fibres floats free. The gap left behind heals.
I shake my head. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Good.”
She says it is good. Then it is good. It feels good. Good. What a good word. Good. Actually it’s a strange word if you keep repeating it. Good. Good. Gooooood…
“Paul.”
‘Thump.’
“Yes?”
“Come with me.”
She moves like music, the filaments provide a perfect setting for her natural grace. The strands brush past me and I am going somewhere. Somewhere in this warm silence, interrupted only by a remote pulsing sensation.
“Slowly, Paul.”
“Of course. Where’re we going?”
“To the surface. We need to be there.”
‘Thump…Thump…Thump, Thump, Thump…’
“Relax, Paul. Listen.”
“…when I review the meetings we have had, my overwhelming impression is the sheer professionalism of Kawuna. I’m sure I speak for my colleagues in this respect…”
“Who is it Paul?”
“Ian. Sir Ian Holst.”
“Good.” That word again held in the O shape of her lips. The thumping is rhythmic now, every second and the pulsing dances around the shifting strands.
“What’s making that sound?”
“It’s your heart beating. Paul, in a few minutes Sir Ian will ask you to sign the contract. You must do as he asks, Paul. It’s important that you do so.”
“Say ‘good’ again.”
She laughs, around us the strands flicker and rustle; waves of pleasure sweep through me.
“Good.”
“…And it only remains for me to congratulate you and your team and wish you a safe and speedy journey…”
“Paul, you need your pen. Take it from your pocket. Good.”
“…I’m now going to invite…er…Paul Rivers, my senior contract advisor…”
Something is distracting me. I force my attention to it. “Who wrote this on my pen? Who is ‘J.’?”
“Paul, it’s not important. Look Sir Ian is opening the contract folder and passing it to you. Take it. Now sign your name.”
“No, this is important. Don’t tell me it’s not. Who is ‘J.’?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Now you must sign. Please Paul.”
“Who is ‘J.’?”
The thumping slows right down once more. Now it is even more spaced out. My agitation subsides. But urgent in me is the need to know who gave me the pen.
Her smile has thinned. “Just do as I ask. I will take you to the surface again; I want you to sign the document. Then I will tell you about Jenny.”
Jenny! An explosion of light; around me the tendrils sway and shift, furiously reuniting, flickering. Millions upon millions of them as far as I can see.
“Paul, leave them. Come with me.”
I brush her aside, forcing my way through the forest to where the activity of the tendrils seems to be centred. Each movement, although increasingly hampered, brings conflicting senses of delight and foreboding. By the time I have reached the coagulated knot of fibres, the thumping has accelerated and I am suffused with dread.
“Paul, come away. Leave them…”
Like a pyroclastic blast the images erupt into my head.
“Paul. Paul, love, help me…” Jenny has her arms round my neck. The wig slips from her head. Under her nightgown I can feel the wasted muscles of her back. He voice breaks into a scream and behind me the door bursts open. Next moment Sister Jess is there, holding Jenny’s elbow and sinking the needle into her shrivelled muscles. The tiny woman in my arms gives a spasm and I smell vomit. The act exhausts her final energy and she slumps into the pillows. Sharp with the odour is a sense of deep anger and intrusion.
“Not important is she? You cow! How dare you do this to me?”
The door to the washrooms opens behind me.
“Paul! You look terrible. What happened to you?”
I plunge my face into the water once more. My head reels.
“I don’t know. What did happen?”
“You were fine. You interrupted my guff a couple of times but I could see you weren’t going to pull anything out of the hat. So I thought, ‘what the hell, let’s finish this.’ When I passed the contract to you, you were in tears.”
“I’m sorry, Ian.”
He places his arm round my shoulders. “Paul. Don’t blame yourself. It was a forlorn hope. I just thought…well, having you here might make a difference. I’m sorry to drag you into this.” He stops. I can see something has occurred to him. “Paul, forgive me for saying this, but you’re not stalling them as well are you?”
I shake my head. The glimmer of hope fades from his eyes. “Take your time. I’ll get the champagne ready.”
I contemplate my reflection. I feel wretched. I have had my memory raped. It is clear to me how Kawuna inc. have achieved their feat. I fight down the anger at the callous way they have used me. Candace had contrived that meeting on the train this morning to explore my mental resilience. Then she had forced her way into my mind, rifling through my filing cabinets with all the compassion of a housebreaker.
“Mr Rivers.” Hakim’s face is a study of concern. “You are better now?”
“Yes, thank you,” I tell him. Candace has her face down, scribbling in her notebook. “Much, much better.” I hope she will look up, startled by the stridence in my voice. She doesn’t so I sit down.
“Paul, perhaps you should sign now?” Julie has her hand on my arm. She looks and sounds weary.
“In a minute. First a drink.” On the table in front is the champagne nestled in the ice bucket. Ignoring them all I pop the cork and pour myself a large glass and hold it up to my eyes. The bubbles dance in my vision.
“Why?” The filaments swirl and sparkle as my fury intensifies.
“Paul, let it go. Come on; let me take it from you.”
“Oh no you don’t! Keep away or I’m going back up there…” As I speak I feel a wrenching between my eyes; a thing, a lump, being pulled through my skull. For a moment I am powerless, then I reach up and ram my fingers between my eyes, pushing, holding the mass back. It takes all my mental effort to resist her – three, four times the memories attempt to part company with my brain. But each time less effort is needed to stop them being expelled. Finally the pulling ceases. When I open my eyes she is lying face down, her fingers have scraped deep furrows in the dirt. I seize her shoulder and roll her over. Her face is filthy, tear streaks rolling through the mask of dust.
“Candace?” My recollection of her is confused, but I know who she is!
“You’re too strong,” she mumbles, rubbing dirt from her lips as she speaks. “I told them you’re too strong. But what choice did we have?” She meets my eyes. “Please, Paul, you’re angry. It hurts me.”
“Too damn right I am. You’d better start explaining things. Why are you doing this?”
“We want the contract. Isn’t that obvious?”
“But Kawuna can’t deliver. You know that. Everybody knows that.” My surroundings are flickering an angry vermillion. “My colleagues are tearing themselves to pieces over this. Ian’s career will be finished.”
“I know, I know. But Paul, we had to do this.”
“Had to? Commit grand fraud? And nearly get away with it too. Well the party’s over, Candace.”
She stands up. Her blouse is smeared with dust that she makes no attempt to brush away. Her voice is harsh. “Yes, we had to do this. And if you knew why you’d do it too.”
Angry flashes, bright red. I seize her arm. “Enough! It’s over. You near as hell destroyed Sir Ian, Julie and the rest of my team. I’m not interested in your excuses. Now we’re going back up.”
Her eyes are flashing. “Fine. Let’s finish it. Let someone else take your blood money. What do you care? You won’t see the result.”
I did not see the transition from the forest of tendrils to the barren open space. It is nowhere I have been. Neither did I feel the switch from stillness to movement; urgent running, throat choked and breath sobbing. A street; primitive breeze-block shops with fruit stacked on packing cases, crates of cola teetering head-high, windows unglazed but covered with mesh.
“Where is this?” She is nowhere. I look down. Coloured blouse, long black skirt, sweat-stained, smell of smoke invading my nostrils and beginning to sting my eyes. My voice, gasping, “Mama, Papa…Mama, Papa.” Houses, more shops; burning or burnt. Black faces, shock and hurt. Khaki uniforms, military police. One of them, semi-automatic slung over his shoulder, is turning two bodies over. Papa’s face has been shot away. Mama has dried blood down her blouse, the one I sent her from the city. Uniform looks disinterested and walks away. Says something into walkie-talkie. “Mama. Papa. Who did this to you?” My knees give way and anguish crashes through my face…
Julie removes the empty bottle from my hand. All eyes in the room are on me. Something falls in slow motion from my other hand and bounces from the table to the floor. I look at the shattered champagne flute.
“Paul. You’d better take another break.”
“Julie, where’s she gone?”
“Candace?”
“Who else? Where is she? No, leave me, I’ll find her.” The door whispers shut behind me as I lurch into the corridor.
I burst into the ladies’ washroom. Next to the line of cubicles is a row of sinks. She is bent over the nearest. She turns, ashen-faced.
“Candace.”
“Leave me alone.” She is choking, gagging, throwing water over her face. I reach to take her shoulders.
“I said leave!” Her hand flies out and catches me across the face.
“Not until you tell me why!”
“You know why. Now go back and tell them it’s over.”
I grasp her wrists and spin her round. Water courses down her face and splashes my shoes. “Look at me!”
“Go. Just leave me alone.”
“Look at me!”
Her exquisite eyes flick briefly to mine, then she closes them. “Why, Paul? You know. What more do you want? Just go and sign.”
I nod towards the door. “They’ll wait. I want explanations.”
When I re-enter the boardroom, both parties are milling around. I catch Sir Ian’s voice; “Mr Rivers has been under a tremendous strain recently. I’m sure he’ll be…Oh, there you are Paul. We looked everywhere…”
“Give me the contract. No, I’m fine now. Just hand it here.”
I sign the paperwork. The champagne has all gone, so we cannot even celebrate the completion of the Arachne contract negotiations. I am in no mood to celebrate anyway.
“Julie, if I tell you, I’ll make you an accessory. I can’t do that.”
“Paul, you said there would be no secrets. So either you tell me, or you’re having this back. Which is it to be?”
She holds up the ring; it glimmers in the candlelight. Finally she breaks the silence.
“She was controlling us all wasn’t she?”
“Julie, love. Can’t you let it go?”
“Paul. I said no secrets. Anyway, it’s how long now? Eighteen months?”
“Two years this September.” I sigh. She’s guessed most of it; she has a right to the rest. After all her job was lost with the rest of our team as a result of Kawuna being awarded the contract. I place the ring back on her finger.
“Yes, she controlled us all. She could do that.”
“But not you, obviously. So why did you let her?”
“How much do you know?”
“That’s my Paul. Cards close to your chest as usual. Okay, I reckon you struck a deal, didn’t you?”
I tell her. About the Ethiopian village where Candace, hearing the reports of tribal conflict in the region came dashing home to rescue her family. Only to find that her parents had been murdered and her brother kidnapped by an Islamic militia.
Candace flushes her face with water one more time. “The soldiers that murdered them were kids, Paul. The youngest was a girl of eleven. Do you know what made them soldiers?” I hand her a towel and she rubs herself dry before continuing; “Weapons. Weapons supplied by European and American arms companies who sell them to the highest bidder.”
“We don’t deal in those kind of…” but she cuts me short.
“Blood money, Mr Rivers. Your money, our blood. Arms dealers who fall over themselves to supply failing regimes with hardware. Their profits depend on African nations continuing to fight amongst themselves.”
“But why Kawuna? What would you do with the money?”
Candace smiled. “You ask me, a woman from Ethiopia, what we could do with five billion sterling?”
Julie is leaning forward, the candlelight playing provocatively over her face. “It’s eleven and a half billion at the last count, and still not a single thing from Kawuna to show for it. She’s very good. But darling, are you sure she didn’t manipulate you? When you were Sir Ian’s budget holder, not a penny couldn’t be accounted for. Suddenly you let her walk away with a sizeable percentage of the UK gross domestic product. How did she convince you?”
A waiter takes our plates and proffers the dessert menu. We both shake our heads. I wait until he is out of range.
“Julie, I blundered in on her tragedy just as she blundered in on mine. I felt what she felt. I felt all her anger and despair at the crazy arms race, just as she felt my helpless fury at Jenny and Phyllis’ deaths. At that moment I saw just how much of my life I’ve wasted being part of this mad system. We agreed to work together to stop or at least hinder it.”
I watch the bemused look settle on her face, then reach into my pocket and hand her the report from the combined cancer charity funding commission. She flips her reading glasses from her forehead and studies the text.
“Kawuna inc. is best described as an asset distribution agency,” I tell her. “Two-thirds of their cash goes to African infrastructure projects including choking supplies of hand weapons at national borders and re-educating the soldiers to a more constructive way of life. In the meantime they go on tendering for arms deals that screw cash out of the developed world…”
“And the other third goes to European cancer research,” she finishes for me. “Paul, you could be locked away for the rest of your life for this.”
“Julie, the system stinks. We luxuriate in plush offices plying our trade without a second’s thought for those on the receiving end. Half of the wars in this world are kept going to keep the likes of us in a job. And we can’t even afford our own healthcare. So yes, if and when it goes pear-shaped, I’m sure my name will come out in the wash. Still want to marry me?”
She doesn’t reply. She could be agonising over this information. Perhaps she’ll even change her mind about me. But I know better. Julie has made clear that there are to be no secrets between us. But there’s one thing I will not tell her. Through all those tortuous hours of negotiations, when she and the team watched the impossible happen before their eyes Julie’s mind was a long way from the boardroom.
“Mr Rivers.” Candace holds out her hand. “We have a deal?”
I study her face. The sheer bizarreness of the situation has not fully dawned on me yet. But I know what she is proposing is morally right.
“Deal. I’ll go back and sign now.”
“Thank you Mr Rivers. Oh…and Paul…”
“She loves you. You know who I mean.”
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