Albert had turned back to his screen and he replied through a mouthful of chicken sandwich. ‘Love you too, Mum. Love you too. Hey, look! I’ve already got an email from someone. Look at that, it’s got an attachment. “I hate Cotter too.” Wonder what it is.
Albert double-clicked. Instantly the screen went black.
‘What
A ribbon of bright red text chugged along the screen.
YOU WANT A DUEL? YOU’VE GOT IT.
ALL FILES INFECTED. GOODBYE.
‘No …
‘Darling, what’s happening?’
‘It’s him, it’s
‘But he can’t have done…’
‘He must be running a permanent search. He’s found the Australian site and knows it’s from me.
‘All right, Albert. Calm down.’
‘I’ve still got my laptop. He can’t touch that. I’ll start again. Do it even better. Take it to a cybercafé. This is just the fucking beginning. Everyone’s equal on the net.’
‘Albert…
‘Can’t talk, Mum. Work to do.’
Portia closed the door and walked slowly to the kitchen.
The whole terrible truth had come crashing into her mind.
Ashley and Rufus Cade. She should have made the connection before and been on her guard. Ashley and Rufus Cade. And Gordon next.
A noise like a farmer turning hay with a pitchfork came through the kitchen hatchway. Gordon was sitting at the dining-room table shuffling through a heap of faxes. Portia thought she had never seen him looking so energised and alive. She preferred not to remember the dread she sometimes saw in his eyes.
‘We will fight on until my husband’s name is cleared.’
How many times had she heard that over the years from the spouses of Aitken, Hamilton, Archer, Clinton, Nixon and countless others who had faced scandal while their wives ‘stood by them’?
She knew that Gordon was not a wicked man. Like most people, he was a child anxious to be loved and like most men, a boy desperate to prove himself in the world. She could picture him doing so many bad things for so many good reasons. He had spent most of his life trying to catch up: A second choice husband living off the earnings of a wife who had married him out of pity and her own despair. At the start of their marriage everything had come from Hillary’s money. Portia had been the brilliant young student with the doctorate and academic tenure, Gordon had been the American outsider who never quite managed to fit in. Ten years of bluff talk to friends had taken their toll on his pride.
‘I’m in the financial advisor game at the moment.’ He was selling endowment mortgages on commission. Somehow worse, in Portia’s opinion, than double- glazing or herbal remedies.
‘A franchise opportunity has opened up. Looking at that quite keenly. Quite keenly.’ He considered managing a Seattle style coffee bar.
‘Business consultancy, as matter of fact.’ Nothing.
‘Broking soft commodities.’ Trading in coffee futures on the residue left by Hillary after she died. And losing it too.
And one last throw. The idea had come from Portia in fact, though he chose not to remember it. She had heard a programme on the radio about the low world prices being fetched for tea and coffee, a subject Gordon had been kvetching about for years.
‘Darling, I know it’s tough for you that the prices are rock bottom. But what about the pickers?’
‘Yes, well, obviously it’s tough for them too.’
‘Surely lots of people in the west would be prepared to pay extra for coffee and tea if they thought it would benefit the third world?’
‘That’s a brilliant idea, Mum.’
‘It seems to make sense.’
‘Porsh, it doesn’t quite work like that – ‘
‘What about it, Dad?’
‘I remember,’ Portia had continued. ‘Peter used to make us buy Nicaraguan coffee. To support the revolution and thumb a nose at America. You could buy it everywhere. Collett’s bookshop, health stores, those sort of places. They used to advertise it in the
‘Sure, it sounds all very well in theory…’
‘Why did you call Grandpa Peter?’
‘Did I, darling? It’s worth thinking about though, Gordon, don’t you think?’
Finally he had achieved something. Success on his own terms.
Portia put her head through the hatch.
‘Gordon, I’ve got to go out for an hour or so. Got everything you need?’
‘Going fine, Porsh. Going fine. A lot of good evidence coming in from Africa, South America, Indonesia. It’s looking good.’
Portia smiled and gave a thumbs up. She had long thought that there was a melancholy air of desolation that hung over dining-rooms that were seldom used for dining. Gordon had spread papers on that table before and never with any good result. The smell of furniture polish and candle wax reminded Portia of death. Dead flies had been candied and preserved in the lips of a half empty port decanter and cobwebs furred the dried flowers and fir cones in the fireplace. She remembered when the mirror over the sideboard had been draped with black cloth. Peter, Albert and Gordon, their neckties ripped, had sat Shiva for Hillary on low wooden stools, Albert’s face so solemn and white that she had wanted to cover it in kisses and hug him close to her. Peter had stayed there the full seven days, mourning his wife and perhaps also the atheism and contempt for ritual of his only daughter. There was no hope to be had from dining-rooms. None at all.
Simon had enjoyed a busy morning on the telephone. He looked down at the To Do List on his Palm Pilot.
Letter to St Mark’s √
John √
Floyd √
Drapers √
Estate Agents √
Mbinda √
(Hotel?) √
Albert √
CE Shares √
DM √
As far as he could tell he was up to speed and on top of everything. He considered leaving early and visiting the nets at Lords for a little cricket practice. A small part of him, looking at the checklist, had whispered the terrible word ‘boredom’ to him. Soon, it would all be over.
Simon swore at himself heartily in Russian. Then in Swedish. A man of his capacity would never be bored. The idea was absurd. He could be anything he wanted to be. Writer. Inventor. Translator. Statesman. Broadcaster. Philanthropist. Collector. Playboy. If he was never bored in a small room in a hospital on a remote island in the Kattegat, how could he imagine being bored when the whole world was his playground?
His desk phone rang and he pressed the monitor button.
‘Mmhm?’
‘I’m so sorry, Simon. I know you said no calls. There’s a woman here. She says you’ll definitely want to see her. I wouldn’t pay any attention, only it’s Albert’s mother. I wasn’t sure if maybe…’
‘One moment.'
He pressed the monitor button again. His plans were so complete, so absolute, so thoroughly thought through. He had not expected this visit, but naturally he had considered it. He was ready.
‘Very well, Lily. Show her in.’
Simon rose from his desk and moved round to the sitting area.
‘Mrs Fendeman, do come in. Coffee? No, of course not. I’m sorry, that was … water, perhaps? Fruit juice?’
‘A glass of water would be fine.’
‘Would you, Lily? Thanks. Sit down, please, Mrs Fendeman. Tell me how I can help you.
Portia sat down. She found it hard to raise her head and look into his eyes.
‘I think you know what you can do, Mr Cotter. You can leave my family alone.’
Simon dropped into the armchair opposite. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘This is terribly difficult. Before you say anything else, let me tell you that I have absolutely no wish to hurt your son. He’s a very fine, very intelligent boy. You should be proud of him.’
