Faithless (11 page)

John had to go to an interview at the British Council's Headquarters at 65 Davies Street in London. John had never been to London but he managed to follow directions well enough to get the
Tube from King's Cross to Bond Street and walk the rest of the way through the busy streets and past the opulent shops. He was early so he had a cup of tea and a thing he later learned to recognise as a croissant at a café nearby. He bought a copy of the Guardian to read and sat at the table and read the arts reviews until it was time to go to the interview.

The British Council office was old fashioned and seemed like it had been created on the model of a 1940s black and white film.  A copy of the Times lay
on the table in the room where he was told to wait. Beside it was an edition of the London Review of Books and a copy of Hare & Hounds. A thin woman in a dark suit eventually called him into the interview room. She was formal but friendly enough.  In front of him around a long wooden table sat five men. They wore dark business suits and boring ties. He knew that the stripes and crests one them signified their schools or regiments.

The chairman stood and greeted John with a firm handshake. "I'm Williams, f
rom the Council. This is Mr Day and Mr White also from the Council and here are Mr Halliday and Mr Kell from the Foreign Office."

They asked John about his studies and how he liked Durham. "I like Durham very much," he told them honestly. "The city is beau
tiful. I also like studying Russian at one of the best universities in the country and I am fortunate to have a supportive tutor."

"Indeed, we have his glowing reference," said Mr Halliday.

After a around ten mintues, they seemed satisfied with his academic qualifications. Then Mr Kell said, "Look, Gilroy, there aren't many British students in Russia. It's not as if you are from Congo or India; they'd welcome you with open arms in that case. But they may not be very nice to you because you're British."

"I s
ee," said John.

Kell was in his flow. "They may try to entrap you, in case you land a job in later years that would be of interest to them. They will almost certainly bug your flat. You will be assigned a Soviet student mentor who will be working for the K
GB. He'll try to turn you. Or at least find weaknesses to exploit."

"Sounds quite scary."

"Don't worry, Gilroy. We'll keep an eye on you. You can always turn to the Embassy for consular support. But, for your own protection, we'd like you to go to a locksmith here in London, if you are selected for the scholarship of course. We have a contract with him locksmith and he can supply you with a cylinder blocking key for your lock that they'll have trouble cracking. Just for extra security."

"Thank you, sir," said John.

"Don't mention it old boy," replied Kell, "You're one of ours."

After the securit
y briefing, it was Halliday's turn. He sucked his lips thoughtfully and said, "After saying all that of course, we have an interest in them too." He paused and grimaced as if pondering the how to put things. "I mean, if you should come across anything that we might be interested in, we'd be very pleased if you could let someone at the Embassy know. Discretely. I'm not suggesting you make a special trip.  but I'm sure you'll meet Embassy staff socially now and then at least. There aren't many Brits in Moscow so they tend to have get togethers every now and then."

"Are you talking about spying?" asked John.

Halliday laughed. "Goodness me, no. You aren't a spy; you're a student. I don't want you to put yourself in any danger. I'm not going to give you a camera for goodness sake. That would be too risky. Just make a note of things. Remember what you see and hear."

Mr Williams, the chairman, and his British Council colleagues made subtle rustling sounds with their papers as if they had let the two spooks intrude
long enough into the otherwise unsullied halls of academe. They asked if John had any further questions. He had a few about travel arrangements. When that was done, everyone smiled and Williams stood up and extended his hand which John took and squeezed back, firmly enough to put his masculinity beyond question, but not so hard as to seem a brutish oaf. He then stood and turned to where the woman had silently appeared and opened the door to let him out. Behind him he heard the interviewers begin to talk among themselves as he exited.

"Seems a good chap."

"Very bright."

"Firm handshake."

"Scots you know. They can be damned fine when they want to be."

Saturday 10th July 1972: Durham.
Karen had come down to Durham for the day of the Miner's Gala. The day was warm and John and Karen walked with Frankton down through town where the crowds were already gathering and crash barriers were in place in anticipation of the March. The city was full of strangers - people who had come from all over the North East of England for the great day. The central event of the Miner's Gala was the procession of the colliery banners from their pits in the surrounding coalfield that met up at the Market Place before processing up the Cathedral where the banners were blessed.

John,
Karen and Frankton walked down to the Swan and Three Cygnets. They entered the pub and went down to the bar downstairs that overlooked the river. There was already some serious drinking going on. John bought the drinks - a pint of bitter for himself, a pint of mild for Frankton and a port and lemon for Karen.

A couple of art students sat on the next table with their long hair and afghan coats. John vaguely knew them and nodded. Even from a table away they smelled of patchouli and cannabis. A transistor rad
io in the bar was playing T-Rex's
Telegram Sam
on Radio 1. Frankton moved his feet absent-mindedly to the beat as he gazed out at the river.

             
"It's going to be a hot one," he said.

             
"Don't complain," said John, "makes a change from the eight months of winter we normally get."

             
They began to talk about music. John quite liked T-Rex; - Frankton was into seriously un-mainstream music. He only had time for progressive rock and his room grooved to the tunes of Amon Düül II and Yes.

             
"Bolan's a sell out," he said.             

             
"You better be careful," said John, "one day there'll only be you left on the moral high ground. At least you can dance to it," said John.

             
"Music's not about dancing. It's about spirituality," said Frankton.

             
"Aye, right."

             
Karen was sitting very quietly. She was wearing a checked orange, brown and yellow skirt and a yellow polo neck pullover.

             
"You ok babe?" said John. "You're very quiet."

             
She nodded. "I'm ok."

             
"You'll be telling me you like Gilbert O'Sullivan next," said Frankton.

             
"Well he has a certain style," said John.

             
Frankton shook his head. "I know you're only winding me up. Have you listened to that Hawkwind album I lent you yet?"

             
John nodded. "Yes. Sure. Lord of Light is my favourite."

             
"Yeah, it's psychedelic. What about Space is Deep?"

             
"Yep, good too. Want another pint? You can't have another pint of mild. It'll make you into an old man before your time."

             
"Ok, I'll have a pint of bitter touch."

They made their way up to the street to watch the banners go past - Frankton talkative with the alcohol
-
Karen lagging behind.  John squeezed her arm. "Are you sure you're all right? You seem really down."

             
She shook her head. "I don't know. I just feel it's all pointless."

             
"What is?"

             
"Teaching. Life. What's it all for?"

             
John laughed but was serious when he saw she was still quiet. "Really? I thought you loved teaching."

             
"I just can't be bothered."

             
"What about me? Don't I make life worth living?" he smiled and buried his face in her hair to smell the essence of her. She turned and kissed him tenderly. "You're lovely. But you know it."

The sun blazed down on them all as they stood watching the marchers. Frankton gave them a commentary on the banners as they went past. "See all those banners with Hammers and Sickles on them! Look there's one with Marx and Lenin!"

             
"You seem very excited about that."

             
"Yes, I've got a Russian soldier's hat with a red star on it my granddad got in Murmansk as a present for being on the Arctic Convoys in the War."

             
"So it's all a fashion statement?"

             
"No, no. I'm with them all the way." He began a drunken rendition of the Red Flag which was taken up by various other intoxicated bystanders.

             
Karen took John's hand and whispered in his ear, "Can we go? I'm not feeling too good."

             
"Of course. We'll have to wait until the marchers have gone past then we can go back to mine."

They left Frankton, who had found some friends, and made their way up through the crowded streets past crash barriers and relaxed policemen and police-horses until they got to Joh
n's digs on Claypath that he shared with Frankton. The house was pleasantly cool after the blistering sun outside.

             
"Want a drink? I've got some lemonade in and some cans of McEwans."

             
She shook her head. "Nothing."

             
"What do you want to do?"

             
"Can we just go to bed? I don't mean for that. I just want you to hold me."  She looked at him. "That ok? I just want a cuddle."

             
"Of course."

             
They went through to his room and lay on his double bed. He stroked her hair.

             
"Don't," she said.

             
He pulled back his hand. "Are you ok? he said. "I've never seen you like this before."

             
She said, "I get like this sometimes."

             
"So what's all this about teaching being pointless?"

             
She shrugged. "Just feels that way. Everything feels grey."

             
"But we'll have a future. When we're finished university and get a job we can begin our lives."

             
"You and me?"

             
"Of course, Kazzie. There never was anyone else for me."

             
She started to cry. "You're sweet John. I don't deserve you."

             
"Yes you do. It's me that doesn't deserve you. You're beautiful and clever and funny. And you've got a great body. I don't suppose I could get you to change your mind about the only-wanting-a -cuddle thing?"

             
She shook her head. "Cup of tea would be nice though."

He went down and made a cup of tea each.
He got distracted reading the paper and had to boil the kettle twice. She had fallen asleep by the time he got back. He started reading Sholokhov's
Quiet Flows The Don
with the aid of his Russian dictionary. Her tea went cold on the table. Karen slept face down.  He watched her back rising and falling gently. He was filled with such a love for her that he had not thought possible. He pulled the blanket over her as the night cooled. But it was still warm enough to leave the window open. Every now and again he heard the shouting of drunken youths as they stumbled past in the street outside. He got undressed and cleaned his teeth while Karen slept.  He got back into bed and put down his Russian book and began to read
Fellowship of the Ring
until he felt his eyes closing. He then switched off the light, lent over to kiss Karen's head and fell asleep.

When he woke he didn't know what was happening. It was the middle of the night. The light was on in the bathroom and he could hear an odd gurgling, sobbing sound. He
jumped up. Karen wasn't beside him. He could hear Frankton snoring from the other room, heavy with beer and unlikely to wake at the noise. He rushed through to the bathroom and all he saw was blood. Karen was standing over the sink, crimson down her wrists mixing with the running water, spiralling down the plughole in a swirl of washed out red. In her right hand she was holding one of his razor blades.