What are the boys? They are the children ol a traitor… Have you the least understanding of what you have done?'
He bridled at her. 'Waste of my time, trying to get support from you.'
'Support for what? For giving away this country's secrets…
If you've any sense, any, you'll just walk away from it.'
' N o. '
' F o r the love of anything sensible.'
' I ' m committed.'
'Committed, to whom? Why not to me, to the boys?'
' T o Colt.'
'Christ… who the fuck is Colt?'
' Y o u met him, at the party you took me to…'
He saw her reaction. As if the contempt went from her. As if the passion had left her.
'… Who you left me talking to. Where were you…?'
' I was… '
'Where were you?'
'I went…'
'Where were you?'
'Our host was laying me, like you never did. So it felt bloody fucking good.'
It was as if he had not heard her. His voice was a whisper. 'I am flying to Baghdad this evening. Everything I have done is for you. I am going to be collected in 35 minutes. Everything has been for you and for the boys. We can make a new life, a happy and prosperous life for our family. We owe them nothing here…'
'At the very least, you owe them loyalty.'
He shouted. He felt the tear in his throat from the scream of his voice 'Who ever showed me loyally? None of them there gave loyalty to me, Sara, when did you show me loyalty?'
'Frederick, stop this insanity at once!'
'I'm going.'
'Without any of us.'
'You're not there every day. You're not sneered at by Reuben Boll, patronised by Basil Curtis. You're not passed over. You're not humiliated.'
'Without any of us, Frederick. Make up your mind.'
'Please, please… '
'Are you going?'
He did not know how to touch her, how to win her. 'I'll send you money… Y e s. '
She went to the wardrobe. She opened the wardrobe door. She threw his suits, his jackets, his trousers, his ties, onto the floor at his feet. She lifted the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and hurled it onto his clothes. She went to the chest of drawers.
She opened each of the drawers and threw his socks, shirts, vests, underpants, handkerchiefs, pullovers. All onto the heap, all burying the suitcase.
'When you go out of our lives… '
'Sara, please, it is only for you.'
She said, 'When you go out of our lives, don't ever try to come back.'
Alone in their bedroom he packed his suitcase, and he waited for the ring at the front-door bell.
His briefcase was on his chair, and his carefully furled umbrella was on the desk, and he was just putting on his coat. Martins winced at the ring of his telephone.
'It's Mid-East Desk. Meeting, please, soonest.'
The Sniper said, 'It's not actually convenient. I was just on my way home.'
'Sorry about that, but there's a storm blowing… soonest, please. Main meeting room.'
Hobbes knocked once and came fast into Dickie Barker's office.
'Apologies, Mr Barker, it's Mid-East Desk at Century. They would like you down there… '
'I've got far more important…'
' T h e car will be at the front for you in one minute. I gather it's Frederick Bissett.'
16
The boys were still in the sitting room and the television was still on. Sara stood with her back to the door and she had said that she would fight to prevent him getting in, yes, even to say goodbye to his boys. He had never once in their marriage lifted a hand against Sara.
The bell rang. From where he was in the kitchen he could see past her. He could see the shape of Colt through the misted glass of the front door.
He lifted his suitcase. He had taken only the clothes that he thought were his best. The remainder lay scattered on the floor of the bedroom. Books would have been too cumbersome. He could order all the books he needed. He had taken the ribbon-tied packet of his parents' letters, he had taken her photograph and the photograph of the boys that had been on his chest of drawers.
He carried the suitcase towards her. There was only the sound of the television from behind the door that she guarded. He thought the boys would be cowering together on the settee, too frightened by all that they had overheard to move or to call out.
Sara's face was turned away from him. She was white-faced, and the muscles at her throat were taut. He saw that her fists were tensed. He would not have dared to try to fight his way past her.
He wondered how she had been, how she had looked, when she was on the bed with Debbie Pink's husband. ' N o, no… '
'Please, Sara, please… '
'Get out of our lives.'
'I'll write to you.'
'They'll go straight into the bin.'
No, no, just what she had said to taunt him. No, no, not true.
'It's only for you, Sara.'
'Get out.'
It was where the fight died in him. He was still carrying the suitcase, weighed down by it. It was the moment when he wavered.
He could turn round. He could go upstairs with the suitcase and he could unpack it. He could put the photographs back on the chest beside the bed. He could come down the stairs and he could hold Sara and he could go into the sitting room and he could hug his boys. The moment when the doubt bit at him…
The bell rang again.
She went forward. She never looked at him. She opened the door.
'Good evening, Mrs Bissett. Good evening, Dr Bissett.'
He saw the face of Colt. Colt smiled. He thought that he would have followed Colt to Hell.
Colt said, ' W e should be on the move, Dr Bissett.'
He went out through the front door.
He turned.
Sara looked through him, as if he wasn't there. There was the sound of the television. He strained for the voices of his children, and he did not hear them.
'I'll write.'
She closed the door in his face.
There was the scrape of the bolt being pushed across.
Colt said, ' L e t me take your suitcase, Dr Bissett.'
Hobbes was in exalted company.
