In the Evil Day

‘He says he talked because you were both silent.’

‘Riccardi doesn’t need an excuse to talk. He talks in all circumstances. He’d talk over the sermon on the mount, the Gettysburg address. What else did he say?’

‘He says he never thought it was political.’

‘Everything’s political. Anyway, you wouldn’t want to make Riccardi your judge of what’s political. He’s a photographer. Born to take snaps. I was with him in Sri Lanka for a month and in the plane on the way back he said, “So what was all that about, anyway?”.’

‘He says it was never clear to him what you and Paul Kaskis were doing in the Lebanon.’

‘Kaskis wanted to talk to someone. He asked me to go with him, I had nothing better to do.’

‘Talk to someone? About what?’

‘I don’t know. Paul never told you anything. How does this line of inquiry further post-trauma research?’

She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just curious. You have to be in my work.’

‘Riccardi might have asked me before he opened his heart to you.’

As he said the words, Anselm heard the whine in them. He sounded like a betrayed lover

‘He didn’t think he was doing any harm,’ Alex said. ‘He’s your friend. He admires you very much. And he finds relief in talking about a painful experience. Most people do. Is it that you don’t?’

‘Can I smoke?’

‘Of course, I should have said. This place was full of smoke when Kai was here. Pipe smoke. I rather liked it. It reminded me of my father.’

He fetched the ashtray and lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the distant ceiling. ‘I was more than scared when they put the tape over my mouth, the hood,’ he said quickly. ‘I panicked. I lost control of myself.’

‘Your body?’

‘Yes.’

There was relief. Why had the thought of that moment of helpless indignity been so clenched in him? He knew. Because, at that moment, John Anselm reporter, John Anselm detached observer, was no more. He had become a victim. He wasn’t the storyteller any more. He was in the story. He had joined it. He was a foul-smelling minor figure in an ancient story, no different from any civilian casualty of war, from any red-eyed, black-garbed crone pushing a barrow of sad possessions down a rutted road on the way from precious little to much, much less.

He remembered too that, in the aftermath of that moment, it had come to him with complete certainty that there would be no return to safety and a shower, to drinks and a meal, more drinks, reminiscences, laughter, to a long sleep in a bed with sheets.

‘I think I have to go,’ said Anselm. ‘I think I’ve changed my mind about talking. I’m sorry.’

Alex shook her head. ‘It’s not to be sorry about. This is painful for you, I understand that. We can talk about something else.’

‘I have to go.’

At her front door, he turned, awkward. ‘Goodbye. I’ve wasted your time.’

She put out a hand, seemed to hesitate, then she touched his arm, just above the elbow. ‘No. Not at all. Can I ask you one more thing? A personal thing.’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you like to see me again? Not professionally?’

35

…HAMBURG…

Tilders looked tired. His eyes half closed, he talked more than usual. Anselm listened but his mind was elsewhere, on Alex Koenig.

‘This is the end,’ says Tilders. ‘We had to put it inside his raincoat sleeve. We had no choice. It’s a bad place, desperation. Dangerous. You will hear. He kept pulling at his cuff, he crosses his arms.’

‘Yes,’ said Anselm. ‘Let’s hear it.’

Serrano: …didn’t get excited. He’s very reasonable.

Kael: That’s a bad sign. They’re looking for this…

Serrano: He says they’ve called in a few favours…Shawn had been…the British possibly.

Kael: Well, the prick…anything for…

Serrano: …ever mentioned the film.

Kael: Did he?

Serrano: I can’t recall. I used to turn off…say…when he was like that, on drugs, drinking. He said…Bill Casey when he was…the CIA, that kind of thing. Knew everyone. North. Sharon…when he was a soldier. Fucking Gadaffi even…

Kael: What else does Richler say?

Serrano: The worrying thing, he says he hopes fucking Shawn did a good clear out…this special office, the Sud-Afs, they’re looking for assets…target now.

Kael: Shit. Still, he could be lying. Second nature to them.

Serrano: Also fucking Bruynzeel, he says that’s a priority. They want to know what we have.

Kael: He can wait.

Serrano: I was thinking last…

Kael: Glad to hear there is thinking.

Serrano: I’m getting really annoyed…

Kael: Thinking what?

Serrano: He talked about buying property, a house in England I think, other places…there might be something there.

Bumping and scratching noises.

‘We thought the thing had fallen out,’ said Tilders.

The sounds went on for at least fifteen seconds. Then Serrano was heard.

Serrano: Possibly.

Kael: This is your business, you understand. I’m too old to have to deal with shit… Serrano: My business? Excuse me, Werner, excuse me, who benefited most from this? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you… Kael: …down. We’re expendable, do you fully understand that?

Serrano: What about your friends? Your friends won’t… Kael: The world changes. Your friends get old, they forget, they die.

Anselm made the gesture, Tilders touched the button. Anselm gave him the slip of paper. ‘Put it in his hands. I’ll ring him now.’

Tilders rose, gathered up his possessions.

‘You’re tired,’ said Anselm. ‘How many jobs do you have?’

Tilders smiled, a wan thing without humour or pleasure. ‘Only as many as it takes,’ he said.

36

…LONDON…

Caroline Wishart knew what to do. Charcoal-suited Dennis McClatchie had taught her, sixty-five years old, pinstriped cotton shirts with frayed collars, full head of slicked-back hair, breath of whisky and cigarette smoke and antacid tablets. She should have thought more about Dennis before going to Colley.