The Yellow Glass (10 page)

“Who did you spy for?”
 
I asked.

“I spied for us!”
 
He exclaimed, greatly amused.
 
“For the Allies and the liberators of the modern world.
 
For my Poland and for America and for the
British Empire, God Bless the King!”

“Don’t you mean Queen?”

“Certainly, I would have spied for her, too, but I’d
been put out to grass long before she came to the throne.”

“Hmm.
 
But you
speak Russian.”

“Indeed, and very useful it was, too.
 
Not as useful as it would be
now
, of course, but they have discarded
me like an old sock,” he said, with a theatrical shrug.

I smiled, “An old sock?
 
I’d say there was plenty of life in you,
yet.”

He laughed and shot me an unmistakeable look that I
might have taken seriously if he’d been twenty years younger and things had
been different.

“You flatter me, Madam.”
 
He leant over the table to stub out his cigar
in the ashtray and whispered into my ear as he did so, “I am not happy about
you being in this place with that document about your person.
 
It isn’t safe.”

“What are you going to do,” I whispered back, “take it
from me, by any chance?”

“Ha!
 
You don’t
trust me; that is good.
 
Trust
no-one
, do you hear me?
 
Ever.”

“Isn’t that a bit bleak?”
 
I said, thinking of Tristram as I said it.

“Very.
 
But
nobody asked you to take the delivery and you should
not
have done it.
 
I tell you
so and I am sure your husband would say the same.”

“Well, what do you want me to do with it?
 
Put it back where I found it so that you can
steal it when I’m gone?”

“Bravo!
 
Your distrust
is admirable; we will make a spy out of you, yet!”

“Oh, for goodness sake” I said, beginning to get
exasperated.
 
“I can’t sit here
whispering all day long.
 
I’ve got things
to do.”
 

I summoned the waiter and paid my bill and I noticed
that he did the same.
 
I put my coat on
and he put his hat on.
 
I picked up my
handbag and he picked up his newspaper.
 
Then we both went outside and I rounded on him once we were out of
earshot.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I am following you, Madam.”

“I can see that.
 
Stop it and go away, or I shall call a policeman.”

“Please do so, that is a very good idea indeed.
 
Ask the policeman to take you home
immediately.”

“Why?”
 
I didn’t
really want to call a policeman, of course.
 
Not at all.

“To keep you out of danger.
 
If you do not do this, then I shall accompany
you home myself, Madam.”

“If you think you’re coming home with me, then you
have another think coming.”

He sighed, obviously unhappy about the situation.

“Very well, I shall say no more,” he lifted his hat.
 
“Good afternoon Madam.”

“Good afternoon to you,” I said and promptly turned on
my heels and went into the nearest shop, so that I could hang about and make
sure that he really had taken himself off.
 

I looked at a lot of superior stationary - it being a
stationers - and eventually bought a postcard of Peter Pan in Kensington
Gardens
[20]
because I’d been there so long I could sense the shop assistant getting
frosty.
 
I’d been peeking out of the shop
window every now and again, while I browsed envelopes, and couldn’t see anything
of the retired spy, yet I still had an uneasy feeling that he was lurking about
somewhere nearby.
 
He was an old pro,
after all; look how he’d witnessed the whole business in the church, when I
could have sworn blind that I’d been on my own.
 
I decided to take a circuitous route home, involving my hairdresser’s in
Sydney Street and the little woman who ran up the odd frock for me in Dovehouse
Street and that should do it.

 
Antoine was surprised at my appearance in his
salon, but happy to fit a regular like me in without an appointment.
 
We had our usual conversation about what I’d
been up to and I told him about Diana Dors’ mother, which gave him a laugh –
although not quite such a
big
laugh
as I’d expected (another couple of years, maybe less, and I predicted I’d be
grateful for the work).
 
I had him sit me
under the drier next to the window but wasn’t able to see much beyond a
towering display of artificial flowers and a swagged curtain arrangement.
 
By the time I’d let him pin my hair up in a
chignon and gas me with hairspray, I was pretty confident that the coast was
clear.

But, when I went up to the girl to pay, she handed me
a white envelope, with a confidential air.
 
Had Antoine not been in the vicinity, I shouldn’t have been surprised to
get a wink.
 
I glanced at the envelope
and frowned.
 
It was addressed in a
flowing hand with copperplate flourishes,
To
the Fair Lady of Golabki
.

“Are you sure this is for me?”

“He pointed you out, Madame.”

“
Who
pointed
me out?”

“The gentleman, Madame.
 
Distinguished-looking. Said he
knew
you, Madame.”

I wasn’t too happy about the way she said ‘
knew
’ (it was dawning on me that when a
woman reached her late thirties there was no rôle - and no man - too old for
her).
 
I thought on my feet.

“These film producers,” I said, “will they never leave
me alone?
 
Now, how much do I owe you?”

I hurried out with the envelope unopened, but there
was nobody on the pavement and, scanning Sydney Street in both directions, I
failed to see the old spy once more.
 
Short of summoning up that police escort, I had to assume that he was
somewhere nearby keeping an eye on me and lump it.
 
I forgot about my little woman in Dovehouse
Street and walked straight home.

 
I opened the letter before I’d taken my coat
off, standing in the hall with my kid gloves on the floor where I’d dropped
them in my haste to get at the envelope.

Dear Madam,
(it said)

 
The unintelligible Russian words written on
the front of your document are not intended to be read by any Russian, but by
an Englishman with a simple knowledge of the layout of the keys of a Russian
typewriter.
 

 
Please remove the document from your handbag
and read what it says.
 
You will find
that there are three words, and the first of the words is
Ишв.
 
If the
corresponding letters are sought on an English typewriter, (for example И
is five keys along from the right on the third, and bottom, row of keys, which
corresponds with the letter B on an English typewriter), the message will
become clear:
 

BID FOR GLASS

 
I humbly offer the suggestion that the
contents of the document reveal what the Soviets are prepared to offer in this
transaction.
 
If I were in your position,
I would leave the envelope sealed, for you what you do not know cannot harm
you.

 
Please, dear Madam, waste no time in handing
over this document to the British Secret Services (or to your husband, if you
have had your fill of revenge), and forgive the intrusion of an old spy who,
like an elderly dog with no teeth, cannot forget the taste of a bone.

Kind regards,

Apoloniusz Z Piotrowski

 
Nobody bothered to tell me she was safe - no
surprises there.
 
The first I knew there
were a couple of suits at the door strong-arming me into the back of a
van.
 
(We live in a police state, right
enough.)
 

I thought it was to do with the mag, that I’d got
under the skin of a few establishment cats with my newest feature, my A to Z of
conspiracy theories.
 
How governments
manipulate conspiracy theories to their own advantage, especially with regards
to war.
 
There was plenty of mileage in
it and I’d only got as far as G for Gunpowder plot; as in discrediting the
Catholics.
 
(Wait until I get to K for
Korean war - that should really shake ‘em up!
  
I’m interested in the conspiracy theory as a paradigm for how we live
today:
 
how paranoia and ignorance
combine to create these fables where we all think we’re the only ones who know
what the hell’s going on and how these stories can be manipulated by
governments for their own ends . . although the idea that governments might be
engaged in this type of manipulation is, obviously, a conspiracy theory in itself.)
 

To be honest, I
hoped
that was what was going on.
 
That the mag
had got right up a few establishment noses.
 
I should’ve realised the men were connected with Rosa’s uncle, the spy.

Then again, I reckoned it was good to know your
enemies
whoever
they turned out to be
(if you want to understand the times you live in you’ve got to be open to as
many experiences as you can, man).
 
So I
was dead curious about the whole story on that journey in the van.
 
Yeah, all the time I was in there I was
thinking about how necessary it was to get close to the enemy in order to
understand what made them tick and how, while doing that, you’d got to try and
seal yourself off, so they didn’t influence you unduly.
 
In that way, I guess we’re all spies.

I leant over to talk to the grey suit accompanying me
in the back of the van.

“Where’re we going, then?”

“Not far now, Mr Arkonnen,” he replied.
 
“We’ve just got one or two questions for
you.
 
Shouldn’t take too long.”
 
He was quite an approachable lad, for a goon.

“Fair enough,” I said.
 
“The magazine’s gone to the printers and I’ve a bit of time on my
hands.”
 

There didn’t seem to be any point in antagonizing
them.
 
Not yet.

It took around half an hour to reach our destination,
which was a lot further than the local police station.
 
We’d driven right inside an enclosed
courtyard before they let me out and I just got a glimpse of grey stone walls
and blind-eyed windows before they hustled me in, so I was unable to identify
the joint.
 
But, wherever it was, it had
establishment all over it, that was for sure; it was carved into the fabric
like the letters on a stick of Blackpool rock.
 
 

After that, they left me in an under-furnished room
for a couple of hours - most likely to unnerve me - and let me mull over my
many crimes.
 
It was laughable how they
followed the manual, but it was no
big
sweat.
 
I mean, they didn’t take my
tobacco.
 
So I smoked a few rollies and
thought about George Orwell
[21]
.

But then Rosa’s uncle turned up.

“Hello Magnus,” he said.
 
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Hey!”
 
I was
genuinely surprised to see him - that character just hadn’t crossed my
mind.
 
“What are
you
doing here, man?”

“We’ve got some questions to ask you, Magnus.
 
That alright?”
 

He sat down on the only other chair in the room, took
a fountain pen out of the top pocket of his Saville Row suit and spread a few
papers out on the bare table.
 

“I won’t beat about the bush.
 
It’s pretty serious stuff and we need some
straight answers.”

“Is it
Rosa
?”
 
I asked.
 
“Have you found her?
 
How’s she
doing?”

He stared right through me with that piercing,
entitled, look of his.

 
“Rosa is fine,
Magnus.
 
That is . . I haven’t had a chance
to see her, but I hear she’s absolutely fine after her adventures.
 
I’m interested that you didn’t telephone me
to find out how she was.
 
If you care so
very much.”

He was wrong-footing me, trying to making me feel bad
and, therefore, vulnerable.
 

“I lost the number you gave me.”

“Did you?”

“But I’m only a friend.
 
You’re her bloody uncle and it looks like
you’ve not bothered to check up on her at all.”

He finally blinked and squeezed out a cold, lop-sided
smile.
 
“Touché.”

“Did she run away again?”

“Oh yes.”

“Rosa Stone, a spy!
 
Tell me you won’t use that lass again, man.”

“I can certainly assure you of that.
 
Now . . Magnus . .” he handed me a document
and his Cartier fountain pen, “this is the Official Secrets Act of 1939 and I’d
be grateful if you’d put your signature to it before we proceed any further.”

“The Official Secrets Act, eh?”
 
I took a quick look at it.
 
“I’m impressed.
 
However . .”
 
I handed it straight back to him, “no way can I sign this thing,
man.
 
Freedom of the press, yeah?
 
You can’t muzzle us.”

“Oh, really; pull the other one!
 
A Paler
Shade of Red
is not exactly the
New
Statesman
, is it?
 
It’s not even
Punch
magazine and that’s gone
completely downhill
[22]
.”

“Come again?”

“If your circulation extends to a hundred, I’d be
surprised, quite frankly.
 
As a citizen
of this country, it’s your duty to sign the Act when required to do so.”

I stood up.
 
I
felt like rolling up my sleeves again.

“As a journalist, it’s my
primary
duty to report what’s going on in this country.
 
And that duty applies however small my
circulation.
 
Although, I think you’d be
surprised to hear how way off target your estimation is.”

“Christ.
 
Sit
down, Magnus.
 
Please.”
 
He suddenly looked dead tired.
 
“Let’s have no more aggro.
 
Listen to me, now,” his voice had jettisoned
a fraction of it’s public school baggage.
 
“I let slip a few details that were not for common consumption the other
day and I take full responsibility for that.
 
But
.
 
The Service can only protect this country if
it’s allowed to do its job properly and that means with as little fuss as
possible; I really don’t see that it would be any skin off your nose to sign
this document.
 
Just to reassure us that
one or two details about this particular operation will not be splashed all
over your publication and that we can talk in further confidence.
 
What do you say?”

I sat back down and thought about it.

“Ask me whatever it is you’ve brought me in here to
ask, and then I’ll consider signing it.”

He made an exasperated little noise and I could see
I’d scored a point off him.

“Very well.
 
I’ll get straight to the crux of the matter.
 
Tell me about your family, Magnus.
 
The Arkonnens.”

“You what?”
 
I
was flummoxed.
 
“The Arkonnens?
 
What the hell is all this about?”

He was studying me again, staring like a hawk at a swaying
blade of grass.

“You say your family came from Finland, is that
correct?”
 

I nodded, slowly.
 

“Recently?”

“I don’t think you’d call sailing over on a Viking
longboat
that
recent, no.
 
There’ve been Arkonnens in Hull forever.
 
Why?”

“Are you in touch with any branches of the family
remaining in Finland?”

“It’s a way back, wouldn’t you say?”
 
I laughed.
 
“Keeping up family connections with your Viking forebears!”

“I can see that
you
might have trouble keeping up connections with
anybody
, Magnus.
 
But what
about your parents?”

He was great at a put-down, was Rosa’s uncle, but I’d
had enough.

“My parents were both killed in the Hull Blitz
[23]
.”
 
I stood up.
 
“If you’re not going to tell me what all this is about, then I’d like to
go now, please.”

He stood up, too.
 
“Ah.
 
I’m . . .”
 
There was a long pause while he tried to get
his head round saying something kind and failed.
 
“You are, what . . twenty-four?
 
Twenty-five?”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“
Are
you
now?
 
You’ve done well to be supporting
yourself with your little publication.”
 
He looked dead surprised, the patronizing bastard.

“
Are
you
supporting yourself, Magnus?”

“Yes, I bloody am!”
 
I exploded.
 
He’d seen where and
how I lived, did he honestly think I was taking some rich man’s shilling?

“No affiliations that bring . . how should I put
it?
 
Grants?
 
Endowments?”

Ah!
 
This
was more like it.
 
This was the kind of crap I’d been expecting
when they’d pulled me in.

“You think I’m working for Mother Russia, don’t
you?
 
In the pay of the Soviets and
spreading propaganda through this lily-white country that’d never consider
spreading propaganda anywhere, itself!”

“Sit down again, if you would.
 
And think before you speak, will you?
 
You’re doing yourself no favours with that
tone.
 
I’ll ask you once more.
 
Magnus Arkonnen, is your publication -
A Paler Shade of Red
- receiving
financial backing from any interested parties that we should know about?”

“No, it damn well isn’t!”
 

I ignored his request and went over to the door; I was
pleasantly surprised to find it wasn’t locked.
 
I couldn’t prevent myself firing off a parting shot:
 

“And you can stick your Official Secrets Act wherever
you like . . I know where
I’d
stick
it!”

I yanked open the door and walked, fast, down the
corridor.
 
I had my head down and was
pounding towards what I intensely hoped was the exit, expecting to be
challenged and clapped in irons any moment, when another door opened abruptly
to my right and out stepped Rosa Stone, of all people.
 
She had a poppy-red dress on with a purple
cape over her shoulders, emerald green high heels, earrings like the
chandeliers in the Tower Ballroom, Blackpool and her curly black hair loose
down her back.
 
It was like they’d just
invented Technicolor with no advance warning.

“Magnus!”
 
She
cried.
 
“Have they been pumping you, as
well?
 
Too
awful
, isn’t it?”

I think I mumbled something non-committal about her
uncle.

“Oh no!
 
Uncle
Tristram’s not here, is he?
 
We must
leave at once.”
 

She was toting a big carpet bag in one hand, but she
grasped my arm with the other one and pushed me in the opposite direction to
the one I’d been going; she’s a substantial girl, is Rosa, and she’d dragged me
halfway down the corridor before I knew where I was.
 
We reached the lobby unscathed, but there was
a big man in uniform leaning on the reception desk I didn’t much like the look
of.
 
Surprisingly, Rosa hailed him like
he was her best mate.