with a parallel line are all individually yours’. Wasn’t Charlie the lucky one?
I’d never been to Istanbul before. All I knew about it was that spies used to be exchanged at the railway station, and the Orient Express stopped here before it crossed the Bosphorus. When it came to the Turks themselves, I just had my stepfather’s words ringing in my ears. ‘Don’t stand still or they’ll nick your shoelaces,’ he used to say about anyone east of Calais. I guessed it might have been like that once, but when I looked outside I didn’t see a steamy bazaar full of shifty conmen. I saw sleek women in Western dress and steel-and-glass trams gliding along a broad, boutique-lined boulevard. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have said I was in Milan. The newer cars had a little blue strip on the side of their number plates, optimistically preparing for EU membership.
I looked around for any sign of my coffee. Maybe I’d try giving Charlie a call.
When it finally arrived, I took a sip from the thimble-sized cup and eyed up the house phones between the reception desk and the lifts. I’d call Charlie to tell him I was downstairs. If there was no answer, I’d wait out on the street and just keep a trigger on the place until he returned — which I hoped wouldn’t be long, because I was going to fall asleep soon whether I wanted to or not.
Should I call Silky and Hazel back at the farm? I hadn’t emailed or spoken to them since leaving Brisbane. Better to wait till I had some definite news, I told myself — though the truth was I wanted to avoid having to explain where I was to Hazel for as long as I could.
I slipped a couple of bills under the saucer and wandered over to the phones. As I picked up the receiver, the lift pinged. A crowd of Germans and Turks came past, swinging their conference goody bags.
The operator rattled off her hellos in Turkish, German and English.
‘Listen, the architects’ conference…’ I smiled broadly; when you do that, it transmits to the listener. ‘I’m the English-speaking organizer in reception, and a Mr Charles Tindall has gone up without his welcome pack… Could you possibly put me through to him?’ I flicked through my imaginary notepad. ‘He’s in… let’s see, room one-oh-six… or is that two-oh-six? I can’t read this writing.’
‘Mr Tindall is in three-one-seven. He is with the conference?’
‘Well, I’ve got a welcome pack for him. Oh my word, here he is right now… Thank you very much for your help. Mr Tindall, here’s your—’
I put the phone down, and seconds later was pressing the button for the lift.
4
I followed the signs to rooms 301–21, down a wide, carpeted corridor. Room 317 was near the end, on the left; its windows would look out onto the boulevard. A Do Not Disturb sign hung from the door handle.
I knocked and took a step back so he’d have a good view of me through the spyhole. ‘It’s Nick.’ I gave him a big grin.
The door opened.
‘I’ve come to pay back that three quid I owe you.’
Charlie was wearing jeans and a pullover he could only have bought from a shop catering for colour-blind customers. He wasn’t smiling as much as the bloke who sold it to him must have; as he ushered me past, I wasn’t too sure if his expression was one of surprise or anger.
I walked into a big, well-furnished room, dominated by a mahogany bed and a window that filled an entire wall. I could just about hear a tram rumbling below us. He still hadn’t unpacked his carry-on, which lay open with his washing and shaving kit and a few pairs of socks on display, but there was a black laptop sitting on the desk next to the TV, lid up and screen working.
Charlie was close behind. ‘Er, don’t tell me, you were just passing.’
‘Had to get my finger out and find you, didn’t I? You spoken to Hazel yet?’
‘You’re joking! She’ll rip my head off and drag it down the phone. I emailed, said I’m fine and I’ll call later.’
I went and sat down on the bed. If he decided to chuck me out, he’d find it more difficult if I’d made myself at home. ‘Do us a favour, will you? Get a plane home with me, and I can go back to my German without your wife killing me.’
He opened the minibar under the TV and brought out two cans of Carlsberg. He handed me one and we both pulled back the rings.
‘Sorry about that.’ He leaned against the desk by the TV and took a mouthful. ‘She can be a nightmare when she’s got the blood up. I’ll call her tonight to explain, now I know how long I’ll be away.’ He smiled briefly before taking another swig. ‘How’d you find me?’
I told him about the power cut at Crazy Dave’s. He laughed so loud they probably heard him on the tram.
I was feeling too out of it to laugh, or even to touch the beer; I just rested the can on my chest as I stretched out on the bed. ‘I don’t want to know the job, mate. That’s your business. But if you’re serious about working, you could do much better than here. What about Baghdad, or even Kabul? The money’s better. Four-fifty to five hundred a day for a team leader, even for a geriatric.’
‘Oi, less of the team leader. Anyway, who said anything about Istanbul?’ He took a long swig of Carlsberg and studied my face. ‘Three days’ work and all my problems are sorted.’
It was my turn to smile. ‘Sorted? What the fuck you on about? You’re already sorted. You’re living the dream.’
‘Hazel’s dream…’ He sighed. ‘Look, I’m happy to go along with it. Since Steven died, the only thing that’s kept her sane is having the whole family around her. But a farm don’t run on horseshit. The pension only just about pays the mortgage, for fuck’s sake. Cash flow, it doesn’t exist. This job will pay off the debts in one swoop, and then some.’
The high sweat-to-bread ratio sounded worrying. It normally signalled a job no-one else wanted to touch with a ten-foot pole.
‘How much?’
He smiled again, and this time it was the really annoying smile of someone who knows a secret you don’t. ‘It’s a one-off. Special senior citizen rates. Two hundred thousand US.’
‘Fuck me. You dropping Putin or something?’
‘Nah, I turned that one down.’
I raised my can to my mouth, then realized the taste of beer was the last thing I wanted. ‘Whatever. You’re too old for this shit. Go home; make Hazel happy. Let me get back to my German.’
Charlie kept looking at me and smiling, like the thing he was keeping to himself was the secret of the universe. ‘It’s not just about the money, lad.’
‘I knew it. All that waffle about that horse of yours… then that stuff on the TV… you just want to get out there and do it again, don’t you?’
‘I wish.’ He turned his back on me to gaze out of the window, and when he turned back, the smile had evaporated. He just stood there and stared at me for a long time, like a cop on the doorstep with bad news, searching for the right words to tell me. He looked down at his trembling hand, then back at me.
I finally twigged. ‘You’re sick, aren’t you?’
He looked away. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone this, especially Hazel. You up for it?’
I nodded. As if I was going to say no.
He stared at me again for what seemed like for ever, and in the end he just shrugged. ‘I’m dying.’
I was so tired I wondered if I’d heard right. ‘
He looked out of the window again. ‘MND, mate. Motor neurone disease. Well, one of the forms of it. A few Yanks who were in the Gulf have got it as well. They’re trying to find a connection, but it’s pretty academic. By the time they do, it will be too fucking late.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
He shook his head. ‘I wish.’
It was my turn to stare. I didn’t know what to say. The only person I could think of with motor neurone
