‘There was a fire. It’s nothing serious. Where’s Helen?’
‘A fire? Where?’ he’s asking, saying: ‘You look terrible, you should go to hospital.’
‘Mike,’ I say, grabbing him. ‘Where’s Helen?’
He’s shaking his head: ‘She was in the bar earlier.’
‘When?’ I say, looking at my watch.
‘I don’t know. What time is it now?’
‘Almost two,’ I say. ‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ he keeps saying. ‘I think she was going to meet someone.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says again. ‘She was acting a bit odd.’
‘Odd?’
‘Like she had something on her mind.’
‘What time?’
‘About eight, nine maybe.’
‘She say anything to John or Alec?’
‘Doubt it; I was sat with Mac and no-one’s seen Murphy since this afternoon.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Murphy? No idea.’ Then he says: ‘You’re hurting me, sir.’
And I look down at my hands gripping the tops of the arms of his pyjamas and I let him go, bloody marks across him.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘You need to see someone,’ he says, an arm helping me along.
‘Who? See who?’
‘A doctor I mean.’
I pull away: ‘I can’t.’
‘You look bloody awful.’
‘Just cuts and bruises,’ I say, taking out my key.
‘You need to get them looked at.’
‘I’m going to my room, I’ll be fine.’
He stands in front of his own door, watching me.
I walk off: ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’
I nod and raise my hand, a thumb up.
At my door, I turn and look back down the corridor -
But he’s gone.
I open my eyes -
The telephone’s ringing -
I reach across the bed, across the open copies of
‘Peter?’
I say: ‘Joan, I’m sorry.’
‘Been so worried about you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to sit up on the bed, grey light coming through the thin hotel curtains.
‘Where have you been?’
I look at my watch:
It’s seven o’clock -
Tuesday 23 December 1980.
‘Peter?’
‘Sorry. What did you say?’
‘I asked where you’ve been?’
‘Surveillance.’
‘Surveillance?’
‘There was no phone, I’m sorry.’
‘I was just worried, that’s all.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You sound terrible.’
‘Just tired.’
‘Were you asleep?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Have you heard from Linda?’
‘That’s why I’ve been trying to call; Richard hasn’t been home since Sunday and she thought he might be with you.’
‘With me?’
‘She drove over looking for you.’
‘Oh no.’
‘You don’t know where he is then?’
‘No; Roger Hook told me he didn’t show up for the questioning yesterday morning.’
‘Questioning?’
‘It was just routine. He knew it was, but then Clement Smith went and had Vice raid his offices.’
‘Vice?’
My head’s throbbing: ‘Yeah, Vice.’
Joan says: ‘You think he’s all right?’
‘I think he might have gone abroad, you know?’
‘No, not Richard. Not without telling Linda.’
‘He’s not been himself, love. Really nervous, paranoid.’
‘Where would he go?’
‘The house in France.’
‘No? You really think so?’
‘Where else would he go?’
‘Should I say anything to Linda?’
‘If she calls again, you could mention it,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember if it had a phone, can you?’
‘It didn’t.’
‘You sure?’
‘You said that was the best thing about the place.’
I’m sat on the bed, on one of the magazines, holding the phone, nodding -
My head splitting: ‘You’re right.’
Joan says: ‘When you coming home, love?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’
‘I know. I’ll be definitely back tomorrow night. Maybe before.’
‘Hope so.’
‘I love you.’
‘Me too,’ she says.
‘Bye-bye.’
‘Bye-bye.’
She hangs up and I sit on the bed, on one of the magazines, the phone dead in my hand, staring into the hotel mirror.
