A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [45]
Could you please confirm by return of post that this file has been destroyed?
Yours sincerely
Alec Milius
I read it back a couple of times and extract ‘by return of post’, which doesn’t sound right. Then, with the letter stamped, addressed and in my pocket, I lock up the flat and head for a bar in Goldhawk Road.
10
Meaning
I am woken at nine forty-five by the noise of the telephone, the sound of it moving towards me out of a deep sleep, growing louder, more substantial, incessant. At first I turn over in bed, determined to let it ring out, but the answering machine is switched off and the caller won’t relent. So I throw back the duvet and stand up.
It is as if one part of my brain lurches from the right side of my head to the left. I almost fall to the floor with the pain of it. And the phone keeps on ringing. Naked, stumbling across the hall, I reach the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Alec?’
It’s Hawkes. And with the sound of his voice I immediately re-experience the stab of my failure at SIS, the numb regret and the shame.
‘Michael. Yes.’
‘Did I wake you?’
‘No. I was just listening to the radio. Didn’t hear it ring.’
‘My apologies.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Can you meet me for lunch?’
The thought of gathering myself together sufficiently to spend two or three hours with Hawkes feels impossible with such a headache. But there is a temptation here, a sense of unfinished business. I spot his telephone number scribbled down on the pad beside the phone.
We haven’t exhausted every avenue. There are alternatives.
‘Sure. Where would you like to meet?’
He gives me an address in Kensington, and then hangs up.
There had better be something in this. I don’t want to waste my time listening to Hawkes telling me where I went wrong, saying over and over again how sorry he is. I’d rather he just left me alone.
He cooks lunch for the two of us in the kitchen of a small flat on Kensington Court Place, beef Stroganoff and rice that is still crunchy, with a few tired beans on the side. Never been married and he still can’t cook. There is an open bottle of Chianti but I stick to mineral water as the last of my hangover fades.
Thankfully, we barely discuss either SIS or Sisby. His exact words are: ‘Let’s put that behind us. Think of it as history,’ and instead the subjects are wide-ranging and unconnected, with Hawkes doing most of the talking. I have to remind myself continuously that this is only the second occasion on which we have met: it is strange once again to encounter the man who has shaped the course of my life these last few months, the aloof figure that lurked on the perimeter of my subconscious. There is something capricious about his face: I had forgotten how thin it is, drawn out like an addict’s. And he is still wearing a frayed shirt and a haphazard cravat, still the same pair of velvet loafers embroidered on the toe with a coat-of-arms. How odd that a person who has given his life to secrecy and concealment should be so willing to stand out from the crowd.
Afterwards, scraping creamy leftovers of rice into a swing-bin, he says:
‘I often like to go for a walk after lunch. Do you have time?’
And largely because there has not yet been any talk of improving my situation, I agree to go.
Hyde Park is buzzing with rollerbladers and a warm wind is blowing north to south across the grass. I have a desire for good, strong coffee, a double espresso to give me a lift after lunch. My energy feels sapped by the exercise.
We have been talking about Mum when Hawkes says:
‘You remind me very much of your father. Not so much in the way you look - he always seemed about twenty-one, never appeared to age - but in manner. In approach.’
‘You’d lost touch? You said when we met…’
‘Yes. Work took me away. It’s what happens in the Office, I’m afraid.’
I don’t feel like asking a lot of questions about Dad. I’d rather Hawkes brought up another subject. But as we are passing the Albert Memorial he