A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [19]
Her skin is very pale and lightly freckled. She has a slightly witchy way about her, a creepy innocence.
‘I’m so nervous. Are you? Did you find it OK?’
‘Mmmm. Where are you from?’
‘Northern Ireland.’
We are walking into B3. Cheap brown sofas, dirty window panes, a low MFI table covered in newspapers.
‘Oh. Which town?’
‘Do you know Enniskillen?’
‘I’ve heard of it, yes.’
Old men with medals pinned to their chests, severed in two by the IRA. Maybe an uncle of hers, a grandpa.
‘How about you?’
‘I’m English.’
‘Aye. I could tell by your accent.’
‘I live here. In London.’
The small talk here is meaningless, just words in a room. But the beats and gaps in the conversation are significant: Ann’s sly glances at my suit and shoes, the quick suspicion in her wide brown eyes.
‘Which part of London?’
‘Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘I don’t know that.’
No talk for a moment while we survey the room, our home for the next forty-eight hours. The carpet is a deep, worn brown.
‘Do you want a drink?’ she asks, with a smile that is too full of effort. There is a machine in the corner surrounded by polystyrene cups, threatening appalling coffee.
‘I’m all right, thanks.’
A gnomic man appears now in the doorway of the common room, carrying a brown leather satchel. He looks tired and bewildered, encumbered by the social ineptitude of the fabulously intelligent.
‘Is this B3?’ he asks. His hair is slightly greasy.
‘Yes,’ Ann says, keenly.
He nods, heavy with nerves. A hobbit of a man. He shuffles into the room and sits across from me in an armchair which has sponge pouring out of its upholstery. Ann seems to have decided against coffee, moving back towards the window at the back of the room.
‘So you’re either Sam or Matthew,’ she asks him. ‘Which one?’
‘Matt.’
‘I’m Alec,’ I tell him. We are near one another and I shake his hand. The palm is damp with lukewarm sweat.
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘And Ann.’
She has swooped in, bending over to introduce herself. The Hobbit is nervous around women: when Ann shakes his hand, his eyes duck to the carpet. She fakes out a smile and retreats below a white clock with big black hands that says half past eight.
Not long now.
I pick up a copy of The Times from the low table and begin reading it, trying to remember interesting things to say about Gerry Adams. Matt takes a cereal bar out of his jacket pocket and begins tucking into it, oblivious of us, dropping little brown crumbs and shards of raisin on his Marks & Spencer blazer. It has occurred to me that in the eyes of Liddiard and Lucas, Matt and I have something in common, some shared quality or flaw that is the common denominator among spies. What could that possibly be?
Ann looks at him.
‘So what do you do, Matt?’
He almost drops the cereal bar in his lap.
‘I’m studying for a Masters degree at Warwick.’
‘What in?’
‘Computer Science and European Affairs.’
He says this quietly, as though he were ashamed. His skin is fighting a constant, losing battle with acne.
‘So you just came down from Warwick last night? You’re staying in a hotel?’
She’s nosey, this one. Wants to know what she’s up against.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Not far from here.’
I like it that he does not ask the same question of her.
A young man appears in the door. This must be Sam Ogilvy, the third male candidate. He has an immediate, palpable influence on the room which is controlling: he makes it his. Ogilvy is the sort of guy you see in shaving foam advertisements hugging their fathers. He has a healthy, vitamin-rich complexion, vacuous turquoise eyes and a dark, strong jawline. He’ll be good at games, for sure: probably plays golf off eight or nine, bats solidly in the middle order and pounds fast, flat serves at you which kick up off the court. So he’s handsome, undoubtedly, a big hit with the ladies, but a drink with the lads will come first. His face, in final analysis, lacks character, is easily forgettable. I would put money on the fact that he attended a minor public school. But I could be wrong. My guess is he works in oil, textiles or finance, reads Grishams on holiday